


Until it All Runs Dry

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aging, Basketball, Breaking Up & Making Up, KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10112084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “I think I’ve got another year left in me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> There’s brief fairly-explicit content somewhere in here but I didn’t want to give people the wrong impression by slapping it with an E rating for like…a couple hundred words out of all this.
> 
> thanks for even opening this fic i know there's a lot there to read...
> 
> please let me know if you find any mistakes so i can fix them!

“I think I’ve got another year left in me.”

Daiki resists the urge to lean forward on the table when he says it; it would bring his face close and level with the GM’s but a million of Satsuki’s reprimands (don’t slouch; don’t look like you can’t sit up straight; it makes you seem old or weak or injured or less serious—always supposedly given from her perspective as his agent and not as his best friend) stop him prematurely. He flicks his eyes over to her, next to him, sitting up straight with paperwork steady in her hands.

“Daiki,” says the GM, and then pauses.

This can’t be good.

“We understand where you’re coming from, but given your injuries the past few years, you must understand we’re simply being cautious. We need a roster full of players we know can play for a full season and aren’t risking their long-term health. I know how much you’ve given the franchise the past nineteen years, Daiki, and we’re very grateful, but I think all of us need to move on.”

The words are hitting Daiki like a million tiny needles, piercing his skin bloodlessly.

“Of course, we’d still be interested in having you as part of the franchise. We have an open assistant general manager position and if you’re interested, I’ve had a contract drawn up that you and Ms. Momoi can go over it at your leisure.”

Daiki almost opens his mouth, then looks at Satsuki again. She’s staring straight ahead, betraying nothing.

“Please take some time to think about it,” says the GM, almost fucking pleasantly. “We really hope you’ll consider moving onward and upward with us.”

“I’ve thought,” says Daiki. “I want to play. If you’re not offering that, we have nothing else to discuss.”

He looks at Satsuki; she’s poised to go. The GM says nothing; the president next to him, silent this whole fucking time, says nothing. Daiki places his hands on the table and pushes his way up into a standing position.

“We’ll hold the offer,” says the president. “In case you don’t like what you find on the open market.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” says Daiki, and that’s more polite than those condescending fuckers deserve. “I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”

Daiki doesn’t wait for Satsuki, but she’s almost ahead of him, the clack of her heels sharp and menacing on the GM’s wax floor. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to look down at the carpet, either; the miniature Cavs logos all over seem to be taunting him with how much they don’t want him.

He and Satsuki don’t speak until they’re in the car, Daiki reclining the passenger’s seat all the way back and slipping his feet out of those stupid loafers that pinch his feet no matter how many sizes too big he buys them. He looks at his hand, the scar raised and stark white against his palm. It still twinges every now and then, but he’d started rehabbing as soon as possible and he’s back to form, better than he’d been the last half of last season and better than the first half, too, maybe. He should have said that; he shouldn’t have just gone with whatever impulsive shit wanted to pop itself into his mind.

“Dai-chan,” says Satsuki once she’s pulled the car out of the space. “I’m sorry.”

For a second he wants to lash out—but it’s not that kind of pitying, throwing-in-the-towel apology. Satsuki doesn’t make those. It’s as much for her as it is for him, as much about how much she thinks she’d failed him as it is about the result.

“Did you tell them I’d take a pay cut?”

She nods.

“Did you stress my veteran presence? Community service? Good health? Whatever bullshit?”

She nods again.

“Then you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You did your job.”

She doesn’t reply, keeps her eyes on the road until the silence is loud enough for Daiki to flip on the radio and they both pretend to listen to the traffic report. They stop for lunch at the café they went to when they’d celebrated Daiki’s last contract extension two years ago. Daiki doesn’t remember what he’d ordered then; he’d only been thinking about bringing the team back up to respectability, another ring, finishing his career here.

“You did the right thing,” says Satsuki, once they’ve ordered.

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” says Satsuki. “They’re the ones who didn’t even offer a workout or some lowball offer. They’re the ones who have been running this franchise into the ground. You’re too good for them.”

“Well, I want them. I like it here,” says Daiki.

Satsuki stirs the ice in her water with the straw and sighs, so quietly Daiki almost misses it. Whether it’s at his obstinacy, the size of the parking lot, or the (admittedly sad) state of the franchise, he’s not going to ask. Yeah, they’ve been fourth in the division for three years running; the last time they’d made the playoffs was the year Daiki had dragged them all the way to the finals and they’d gotten swept, the year he’d thought he’d blown out his knee (and the scars from that surgery aren’t all that faded, either), five years ago. They’ve avoided full-on tank mode, but all of their good young players have walked away to friendlier situations, teams that have plans and directions. And even a team like that thinks they can’t use the services of an old franchise player, apparently. (And yeah, the executives don’t deserve him if they’re going to treat him like shit, but the team still does. The fans still do.)

“Well,” says Satsuki, finally. “If you were serious about taking your talents elsewhere, I’ll look into it. Anywhere in particular?”

Daiki shrugs. He can speak callously about the situation all he wants but he really doesn’t want to think about leaving; he’d said it to make them want to regret it, phrased it like that to make them reconsider. He doesn’t really want to go to South Beach or Minnesota or Brooklyn or Dallas or, well, anywhere really. He’s lived here half his life; leaving has never been a real option and he hasn’t even half-seriously considered it in years. Playing in the NBA and playing in Cleveland go hand in hand, because that’s just how it’s always been for him.

“Anywhere you don’t want to be?”

Daiki shrugs again. It’s all the same to him at this point.

Satsuki drops him off at home afterwards with a promise to let him know if she hears anything back. Daiki turns up the ringer on his phone before she’s turned the corner and waits.

He’s still waiting on a silent phone a week later. They don’t call him; they don’t call Satsuki to call him. Daiki practices, at the gym with his trainer and on the street courts after hours. He feels good; he’s playing well, like he’s gained back half a step after spending the past few years feeling like he’s lost one or two (or even three on his worst days). It’s not a real game, but he’d been feeling sluggish and off in practices, too. It’s not like he’s going to go out and keep up with the young kids and their boundless energy, their new trick shots that he knows he’d only embarrass himself attempting (even though he would have nailed them ten or fifteen years back). But he can still shoot; even if he can’t throw down as many dunks or pretty fadeaways he gets the ball in the net. Even if he has to stick to something close to a form, watch his own videos late at night and find the flaws, he’ll do it because it’s already paying off.

And they still don’t call. It’s a little like basketball itself has been chewing on him and spit him back out like a wad of used gum. It’s like being fifteen all over again, but in reverse, but it doesn’t really matter because the result’s the same. Daiki’s still been left alone, on the other side of some arbitrary barrier, unable to reach what he’d just had, taking it all for granted all over again. But he’s not going to walk away; he can’t when he still has something left to give up to basketball. Maybe it’s stupid, but it can’t be the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

A couple more weeks pass in silence. The Cavs call again, reminding Daiki of the front office offer; he thinks about hanging up on them but half-politely defers instead. Satsuki’s other clients, bright young things and veterans who aren’t quite as old (but definitely just as injured) as Daiki, all get signed to good deals. Daiki thinks about texting her, but he knows she hasn’t forgotten about his situation. He’s trying not to get his hopes up about a huge deal in the works, but the only other reason she hasn’t called is that there’s been nothing at all.

Then, finally, miraculously, she does—not a real offer, but something that could lead to one, and while it’s less than he deserves it’s more than he has.

* * *

Regardless of the outcome, working out for the Clippers has a built-in advantage, and that’s Taiga. Daiki figures he can hang out, kick Taiga’s retired ass at basketball, eat his cooking, and generally feel better for a few days until he hears the result. The Clippers’ staff had seemed noncommittal at best, so Daiki’s trying to keep that out of his mind for now. He knows he’d aced a lot of the physical tests they’d expected him to fail, and he knows he’d sunk a couple of really nice baskets. He’s just not sure where he’d fit in on a team like that; they already have veterans and bench players and what they really need is a shutdown defender, probably bigger and faster than Daiki.

They’re probably not calling him back so soon (they’ll probably just go through Satsuki when they do anyway) but he’s checked his phone maybe a hundred times since getting back.

He shoves it back into his pocket, and Taiga crosses his arms. As oblivious as he is and as much as he’s multitasking, he’s still noticed it. They haven’t talked much about the tryout at all, other than Daiki saying why he’d be in town and a very short exchange right after Daiki had gotten back about how the it had gone.

“You know, retirement’s not so bad,” says Taiga.

“The meat’s burning,” says Daiki.

Taiga swears under his breath and jobs back to the grill to flip the steaks, giving Daiki a few moments to prepare for him to try and do whatever he’s going to do.

“It really isn’t,” says Taiga when he gets back. “Eat what you want, work out what you want. You can still play ball every day but, you know. You don’t have to wear yourself out.”

But Daiki’s not wearing himself out with this, not really. Yeah, his body is a lot less shy about protesting jet-lag and some of the strength and conditioning exercises. Yeah, it’s tough when he’s stiff and sore most of the time, when he’s capable of less but has to do more. It’s still a small price to pay for playing the best basketball of his life against the best players in the world. It’s not much of a question; he’d put up with way worse just to keep doing it. 

“I got the rest of my life to be retired,” says Daiki. “I’m doing this until I can’t anymore.”

“What if you only get D-league offers?”

“Then I put on a show and get called up one game later.”

Taiga snorts. “I admire your confidence.”

“It’s true. I could take you anytime, old man.”

Taiga snaps the tongs at him. “You’ll be thirty-eight at the end of the month, too.”

“Shut up,” says Daiki.

* * *

The Clippers don’t call him back the next day; neither does Satsuki. Maybe no news is good news. None of the press outlets have picked up on his workout; the NBA news is dry and dead, full of tumbleweeds like some kind of ghost town in one of the shitty TCM movies Daiki used to fall asleep to in hotel rooms.

He’s watching ESPN in Taiga’s living room and half-drifting into a nap while the announcers talk about the NFL preseason (boring), when he hears something about basketball and snaps back into being awake. It’s not a false alarm; they keep referring to the Knicks and their annoying young forward. Daiki’s already refreshing social media; the kid’s name is the number one trend on twitter.

He scrolls past angry tweets describing colorful means of punishment, reaction gifs, and tag spams, and there it is, from one of the major news outlets: “Knicks Lose Two Forwards”.

According to the article, the annoying young forward has decided to break his contract in the year he stands to make the most money in order to go back to Lithuania and play for his hometown team. One of their other forwards, an older guy who had played half a season on the Cavs a while back, has apparently shattered his hip in a car accident and is out indefinitely. Daiki flips through his contacts and sends him a quick text of well wishes, and then slumps back against the couch, trying to stop his heart from thumping as wildly as it is in his chest.

“The Knicks’ already-weak forward corps has just been decimated,” one of the ESPN reporters is saying. “Decimated. This was a weak free agent class to begin with, but at this point in the offseason there’s no one left at replacement level. They’re going to have to make a trade or two, and they’re not in a good position right now.”

“They’ve still got Vaughn—”

“Who barely cracked the starting lineup on two teams last year?”

“True, but he’s still, you know, there.”

Daiki lets their voices fade out again; their pointless debates don’t matter now. This is it, one way or the other. The Knicks will call, or they’ll make a trade and someone else will make another trade and someone somewhere will need a forward and they’ll call. Or no one will call and he’ll have to—what? Beg the Clippers to give him another chance? Go to Europe? Ask Satsuki to beg a D-league team to give him a shot? Daiki sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s no use thinking about this with any kind of finality. He’s good enough to get a shot, and someone’s going to give it to him at some point.

It had just better be fucking soon.

* * *

Daiki’s phone rings in the middle of the night; the obnoxious factory-default ringtone practically bounces off the walls. He has to grope for it, shutting his eyes against the glare of the screen, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Yeah?”

“Dai-chan!”

“Satsuki?”

His first thought is that things aren’t okay, that something had happened—her father’s heart issue, something with her wife—but she sounds excited, not stressed.

“The Knicks called. One year, four million.”

“One year, four million,” Daiki repeats, stifling a yawn—that’s barely above the veteran minimum for as many years of service as he’s logged. “There a bonus?”

“Extra half a million if you play sixty-five.”

He could pretend to consider, or he could just give in and go back to sleep (half his mind is screaming that it’s a contract and the other half is telling that half to fucking chill and winning). It’s a contract; it’s a team low on forwards and that means he’ll get more time on the court and screw it.

“Done,” he says, and he’s back to sleep before Satsuki hangs up.

It seems like a dream in the morning; maybe it is; it can’t be that easy and that’s way past the end of the business day in New York, but whatever. Daiki heads downstairs in his pajamas to eat breakfast; he and Taiga are going to some yoga studio later and he might as well get ready for that. Taiga’s already at the counter eating an apple; he looks up like he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

“I think I signed with the Knicks,” says Daiki.

“I know you did,” says Taiga. “Pending physical. I saw it on ESPN.”

“Told you I’d get signed,” says Daiki (he’d actually said no such thing, but it’s the spirit of the issue).

“Congratulations, though,” says Taiga. “But I guess this means you’re leaving early.”

“Huh?”

“Uh, the physical? The press conference?”

Oh, right. The physical’s not going to be a formality with him, and he’s heard of players flunking before, dealt at the deadline only to stop before they get to the airport or inking a fresh deal and having it torn up before the ink can dry because of some lingering issue. He’s never needed a physical as more than an easily-passed formality, not since draft day; the Cavs’ team doctors had always known where he was medically when he’d signed whichever extension and at the beginning of every training camp; they haven’t checked him out in that kind of depth since draft day. Daiki sighs; his phone’s probably full. When he gets back to his room to check it there’s a few emails from Satsuki with contract, physical exam, press conference and flight details (she’d already booked him for the redeye tonight and a very nice hotel, though that one’s courtesy of the team), a voice message from the Knicks’ GM, and a couple of texts from players he sort of knows on the Knicks welcoming him to the team.

“Anyway,” says Taiga. “Do you know how long you’ll be there?”

“A few days,” says Daiki. “After that I have to pay for the hotel myself.”

“Oh,” says Taiga.

He scrunches up his face, like there’s something he wants to ask. Daiki waits, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“What’s the favor?”

“Can you check up on Tatsuya?”

Daiki blinks. “Sure.”

It’s an odd request; Taiga and Tatsuya are still close as far as Daiki knows, and Daiki hasn’t spoken to Tatsuya without Taiga there in years (other than brief on-court exchanges). Daiki would say things are amicable between them, but there’s nothing he, as Tatsuya’s ex-boyfriend, has access to that Taiga, as Tatsuya’s best friend, does not.

“We had a fight. At the beginning of the summer.”

Now this is interesting.

“I told him the same thing I told you, that he should retire.”

Daiki snorts. Even without knowing about the fight he would have guessed that hadn’t gone over too well.

“He’s…I guess, he’s in kind of a similar situation as you, so,” says Taiga. “He might, I don’t know, tell you more?”

“What do you want to know?” says Daiki. “I’m pretty sure a lot of this isn’t any of my business.”

“Just…I want to know he’s really doing okay. With everything.”

“Okay,” says Daiki. “I’ll do that.”

* * *

The physical is apparently mostly a formality; they’d seen some tape of his summer workouts (apparently his trainer is friends with one of the Knicks’ scouts) and that’s allayed most of their concerns so it’s mostly heart rate stuff, checking his knee against old x-rays, and prodding his hand to check if that bothers him. They’re satisfied, and the contract’s made completely official. Daiki’s in the hotel room dressing for the press conference, fixing his cufflinks, when it starts to seem almost real. He’s about to step out, talk about how excited he is to join the team, stand next to a GM and coach he’s barely met, cycle through canned phrases before discarding them when he gets bored. It almost feels like Draft Day, waiting for his name to be called, waiting to seal his future. This time he’s alone, though; he’s not waiting with his friends; he’s not worried about speaking English in front of a crowd; the whole thing doesn’t seem as meaningful. And, really, it’s not; it’s not like he’s going to spend nineteen years playing here.

He and Satsuki make small talk with the executives while they wait (well, Satsuki makes small talk and Daiki pretends to listen) and then the GM slips off to introduce him. Satsuki squeezes his hand.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he says.

The curtain parts.

“And here he is, Daiki Aomine!”

The flashbulbs start before he’s out; Daiki ducks and puts his hand up (it’s a well-lit room for fuck’s sake) and then focuses his face on the GM, smiling widely at him and holding out a jersey. Daiki doesn’t even have time to look at the number on it before pulling it over his head, on top of his shirt and tie. He looks down while he tugs it over his hips, and there’s the familiar number five. It looks so weird, so out of place on his body with the orange and blue, but he forces himself to look up.

“Thanks for coming out today,” he says. “It’s, uh. It’s an honor to be here, and I’m really excited to be a New York Knick, to become a member of a storied franchise in a great city like this, and to get the opportunity to play in front of such great fans.”

He pauses, and then thanks the GM and the president and the owner and Satsuki, runs over the list Satsuki had made for him to read that he’d said he’d ignore but actually looked at and, well, it’s better than his own thoughts at the moment. He’s not going to give the Cavs the satisfaction of thinking he’d rather be in Cleveland announcing one more year, no matter how much he wants to say it or how true it is. The press gives him a lot of softball questions (“Was it hard to leave Cleveland?” and “What made you choose New York?” and “Did you think about retiring?”) and the last one is probably that, too, but Daiki’s going to say the answer like he means it because he does.

“What’s your goal for this year? Play all eighty-two games?”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” says Daiki. “Make that all ninety-eight, though. My only goal’s a championship.”

“Gonna sweep everybody?”

“Why not?” says Daiki. “I think this team can do it.”

He smiles for the flashbulbs for a while longer and then it’s all over. He’s still got enough time for a nap before dinner with Tatsuya, and now the press conference is done he can actually look forward to it.

Tatsuya had suggested some bar on the upper west side Daiki’s never heard of, but has apparently been around since before he was born. There’s still so much of the city he doesn’t know, and so much that’s changed since he spent two summers in a row here with Tatsuya (even in midtown by the hotel there are so many new buildings, so many repurposed and decked out so they’re unrecognizable until Daiki looks at them for a few minutes). How much of it is he going to get used to in a year? How much of it will compare unfavorably to Cleveland? How much can he close his eyes and pretend he’s back in Tokyo instead and avoid that topic entirely?

Daiki gets there a few minutes early, for once overestimating the likelihood of MTA delays. The sun is sinking in the sky; it’s still hot and humid and dirty in mid-August and the city won’t let go of summer even though the earth is orbiting away and the days are shorter. Considering how people here barely seem to notice when the sky turns dark because of how bright their artificial lights are, maybe it doesn’t even matter to them. His face is still turned up at the clouds when he hears the sound of a clearing throat, and he turns around.

There’s Tatsuya, smiling so bright Daiki’s glad he’s already wearing sunglasses. Daiki’s not sure what to do but Tatsuya solves that problem for him; he pulls Daiki into a brief hug.

“Hey,” Daiki says.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Congratulations on the contract, by the way.”

“Thanks,” says Daiki.

They sit outside and order drinks; Daiki gets a chocolate stout (it’s his cheat day, okay) and Tatsuya orders a vodka soda. They sit in silence for a while, Daiki taking quick looks at Tatsuya’s face over the top of the menu. He looks good; he looks almost the same as he always has and he could probably pass for much younger. His face is mostly free from lines; he has gentle crow’s feet at the corner of his eye that disappear into his bangs, but that’s it. And his hair doesn’t look thinner or greyer, still falls across his face as it always has. His skin is still clear and tight; there are a few more moles on his bare arm across the table but that’s the only notable difference Daiki can see. He looks a little bit more worn around the edges, tired but not faded, like a well-kept photograph. Daiki looks back at the menu again, but the waiter’s already there to hand them their drinks and take their food orders. Daiki takes a sip for courage, and then leans forward on the table.

“I talked to Taiga. He wants to know how you’re doing.”

Tatsuya laughs. “I figured it was something like that.”

“That’s not all of it,” says Daiki. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to see you.”

Tatsuya sips his drink. “How much did he tell you?”

“Not much. That you guys fought.”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “We did. I told him I was trying to find a playing job; he told me I wouldn’t mind retirement, and I disagreed. Part of that was me being overly sensitive and taking it the wrong way, but I don’t like other people telling me what I would and wouldn’t like, even when they’re right, so I had an extra reason to be contrary.”

Tatsuya is nothing if not self-aware.

“And I’m a bit worried that he might be right.”

Tatsuya’s voice is getting lower and lower with every passing word; for a second Daiki wants to reach over and grab his hand, tell him Taiga’s wrong, but they’re not dating anymore. Tatsuya had never been this frank with him when they had been, anyway (and that’s one of the reasons they’d broken up in the first place). But thing is, Taiga definitely is wrong about Tatsuya, the same way he’d been wrong about Daiki. Tatsuya’s incredibly stubborn and incredibly attached to basketball, in a way that Taiga doesn’t completely get. And even without that, Tatsuya’s last year had been more than serviceable, split between the Bucks and Wizards. He’d done fine in limited minutes; he hadn’t even been injured.

“He’s not,” says Daiki, and Tatsuya throws a half-smile at his drink.

“Even if he is, I don’t want to go just yet,” says Tatsuya. “I can’t, not when I’ve been given this chance to play here in the first place—I can’t leave until it runs completely dry.”

And that’s it; that’s the way Daiki feels but expressed with more clarity. It makes sense, given how much longer Tatsuya’s had to think about it, and at that realization Daiki feels a rush of indignation.

“Got any offers yet?”

Tatsuya shrugs. “The Knicks gave me an invite to training camp. I’m not holding my breath for more. Everyone knows it’s a young man’s game now; guys like us are on the wrong side of the trend.”

Trend or no, they’re good enough; they’ve paid their dues. There should be a place for them; there ought to be. But Daiki’s not going to say it; he can already hear Tatsuya’s response about how unfair life can be echoing in his head. He’ll tell Taiga Tatsuya’s fine; he’s at least as fine as Daiki is.

The conversation switches to league gossip, baseball, politics, people they know; the meal is pleasant and Daiki starts to wonder why they’ve never done this before. It’s been more than a decade since they’d broken up, time enough for both of them to move on with their lives and be okay with this. But there’s no use dwelling on that; they’ll be living in the same city now and have plenty of time to catch up and try to be friends (if that’s what Tatsuya wants, too).

“Do you have a place to stay here?” Tatsuya says as they leave.

Daiki pulls a face; he hadn’t even thought about that. What the hell is he going to do about all his stuff back in Ohio, his house? Should he just sell it? What about his car? He’s not going to make any attempt to drive in the city, but commuting in from the suburbs is not an appealing prospect either. And all of that’s way less relevant than the fact that he has to actually figure out how to rent or buy and deal with real estate people for the first time since he bought his house sixteen years ago (which had been taken care of by his old agent, anyway—there’s no way Satsuki’s going to do this part for him).

“Um,” says Daiki. “How long do you think I can get the team to put me up in a hotel?”

Tatsuya laughs, clear and bright in the summer air. “I can hook you up with a real estate agent.”

“Thanks,” says Daiki. “I’m probably going to have to stay in Cleveland until training camp, though. Pack and stuff.”

Daiki really doesn’t want to just choose a place without setting foot in it, although if it’s going to be impersonal anyway he might as well let go and pick whatever’s got the best price. And either way he doesn’t want to just end up in an apartment with a one-year lease and half-packed boxes strewn all over, only to get traded somewhere else at the deadline (he’s been to teammate’s temporary residences before, and unless they’d packed up and moved their families that’s what they always were), but maybe that’s unavoidable.

“You can crash at my place for a while,” says Tatsuya. “It’s a lot to think about at once. You still have a key, right?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki, half-automatically.

(He’d never turn Tatsuya down—is it okay? It doesn’t sound like a courtesy invite, and Tatsuya’s not the kind of guy to make those, especially not to him. And there’s something, not really good or bad or weird but just something, like seeing movement out of the corner of his eye and then turning around and everything is still, about Tatsuya not having changed the locks after all these years.)

“Great,” says Tatsuya.

His voice is almost a little bit relieved, but maybe that’s just Daiki projecting his own feelings all over again.

* * *

Training camp is a little ways upstate, secluded enough even with the packs of reporters and extended roster. Everything about the situation feels weird, like some kind of alternate universe on the other side of Daiki’s reflection in a store window, cracked and faded. It’s weird not knowing any of the beat writers or the trainers, and only a few of his teammates. It’s weird that all around him is orange and blue instead of maroon and gold (it’s no less weird than it had been at the press conference staring down and seeing those colors on his body). It’s not like an international tournament or an all-star game; he’s going to have to get really used to wearing this for an entire season.

“It’s strange, right?” says Tatsuya.

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “A little bit. For you, too?”

“Nah,” says Tatsuya.

Tatsuya’s a fucking liar but he knows Daiki’s probably not going to call him on it. He’s back after seven years away; how many of these guys did he play with? Any of them? The number on his locker is 35 instead of the 21 he’s worn nearly his entire career (because that number now belongs to the Knicks’ hotshot young point guard). The ancient coaching staff Daiki still remembers from the early days (and he’s sure Tatsuya remembers better) has been entirely replaced with people closer to Daiki and Tatsuya’s age than some of their teammates—one of the assistants is a couple of months younger than Tatsuya, even.

The kids themselves still seem younger every year; Daiki’s lost count of how long it’s been since they’d started sidling up to him nervously (and trying to play it cool and tough) not because of his ability now but because he was one of their favorites when they were kids. A couple of them still do that; a couple of them were even Cavs fans. Watching them flip around from that barely-disguised starry-eyed naivete into jumping like they’re wearing moon shoes and taking trick shots without worrying about twisting their elbows makes Daiki feel way too old for this in a very self-conscious way. He pulls at his shirt, trying to hide the way it clings to the half-pronounced wrinkles on his body, stuck with the pouring sweat he would have barely broken fifteen years ago. He adjusts his headband again, hoping it hides his (slightly, okay!) receding hairline more than ever and all too soon it’s his turn to do the drill again. Didn’t it used to seem like time was crawling between iterations, and he couldn’t wait to go again?

All in all, he still feels good; it’s fun playing with the kids and especially with Tatsuya, because Tatsuya doesn’t quit. Some of the kids are overweight or under-muscled; Tatsuya’s at peak condition and he’s already hitting everything hard; he’s not dallying on the sidelines or goofing off or skimping out the way everyone else does at first. By the end of the first day, they’ve all noticed and they’re all going harder just to meet Tatsuya halfway. If Daiki hadn’t known him for so long, he’d say from the way he plays Tatsuya was in his early thirties instead of a year away from forty. He doesn’t hit the same peaks Tatsuya used to consistently stick to at that age, but he’s still so polished and prepared. He makes the easy shots; he makes a lot of the hard ones; his form is clear and rust-free, almost the same as it’s always been; he makes up for his lowered speed and stamina by squeezing a little more out of every dribble and pass and steal—he’s not elite, but he’s still damn good.

If Daiki’s not careful he’s going to fall for Tatsuya all over again, let the physical attraction and admiration and mutual love of basketball and similarity in situation pitch him forward until he’s right back where he’d been at twenty-seven, mopey and belligerent all the time because it’s obvious they’re not going to get back together, and that’s going to fuck up everything.

He resolves to distract himself by working out a little extra (as penance for the two gyros he’d had for lunch, one last time before leaving Cleveland), and chatting with the coaches a bit. He’s popped his headphones back into his ears but hasn’t turned on his MP3 yet when the coaches start talking as if he’s not there. Daiki’s not that interested; they’re mostly talking about the fringe players, young guys who they’re planning on sending to the D-League (and how long they should wait to do that).

“I’m glad Himuro’s here,” says one of the assistants. “He’s kicking the rookies into higher gear. It’s good to have him around to motivate them.”

Daiki feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Is this why they’d invited Tatsuya at all? Is it less a bonus benefit and more the entire reason? Once the kids are sufficiently competitive with each other, are they just going to cut him? He deserves to be here; right now he’s playing better than any of their glut of backup guards. There’s cap room for another veteran salary, even a big and bonus-laden one. The coaches will probably see past their bias if that’s the case; Daiki repeats that to himself over and over and turns on the music. He doesn’t want to hear any more talk.

Tatsuya digs it out of him within an hour of getting back to their room, when they’re supposed to be asleep but Tatsuya’s watching tape from this morning and Daiki’s trying to figure out what he sees. Tatsuya has a way of knowing when something’s up, and Daiki doesn’t want him to be blindsided no matter how much it hurts to say it.

Tatsuya nudges him, pausing the video and waiting until Daiki meets his gaze. “I’d figured that was the case. They know me; they know how I operate, and they don’t need an old guard.”

“Oh,” says Daiki.

“They haven’t cut me yet,” says Tatsuya.

They haven’t cut anyone yet; it’s still the first day. Daiki doesn’t say that.

“I’m just going to have to work a little harder. Don’t worry about me.”

It’s not that fucking simple and they both know it. But it never is with Tatsuya, and Daiki’s not going to push the issue when it’s only going to make both of them feel worse (neither of them needs that on top of the preseason). Still, Daiki wishes it was just that clear-cut. At the very least, he’d rest easier.

* * *

Tatsuya makes it easily past the first round of cuts and into the early preseason games, the ones where everyone’s floor time is uneven and they’re only supposed to care about trying new things and looking less rusty than everyone else. They’re more about competing with each other than competing with the other team, but Tatsuya (being who he is) manages to fit both on his plate like giant entrees. It’s clearer than freshly-shaved ice from where Daiki sits, a DNP tonight with around half the current roster, shoved onto awkward courtside seats. He’s acting even more attentive than he always is with the coaches, making every adjustment they tell him to and sticking to their plans, doing his damn best to make even the ridiculous shit work and sometimes pulling it off. He’s aching for more minutes; he comes off when he’s told but the minute he gets sent over to stretch and get ready to go back he brightens up like a computer screen when the sun comes out. Tatsuya couldn’t make it more obvious how fucking much he wants this roster spot, and Daiki can’t blame him. The coaches pay lip service to “the one who wins is the one who shows he wants it more” all the time and either it comes from a place of genuine belief or they’ve said it so many times they’ve ended up convincing themselves somewhat (no matter how untrue it is, unless, of course, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like this).

The longer Tatsuya stays the more the press start investing in him, dragging up moments from the earlier collective consciousness about his glory days, the championship ring, the all-star game and the two all-defensive teams, the sixty-point game. Daiki gets dragged into it when they start running out of stories and republish old pictures of the so-called reunited friends, pictures from the first summer they were dating and went around the city to see and occasionally be seen. And then they start writing about how old Daiki and Tatsuya are, how they’re the only two left playing pro ball from “the greatest basketball generation in Japan” and how they’re still such good friends, rooming together during training camp and all.

They can’t save all their fluff stories for that, though; they have to stir up some drama and pester Daiki about the Cavs when they get bored or need a few extra quotes. Daiki tries his best to remain noncommittal, sticking to the story that it’s just a different opinion. No one buys it. Daiki tries not to read his own press, but he ends up following links on social media about rumors that the talks between him and the Cavs had been what they were, him pushing for a contract and management trying to push him somewhere else, and rumors that there weren’t any talks at all. After all, why would a franchise player leave after 19 seasons? There’s only one reason they ever do. Daiki’s still angry, especially when he thinks about it, the carelessness and contempt with which the executives had spoken to him, as if all he’d done really wasn’t worth shit at the end of the day.

“It’s a business,” Daiki tells the reporters. “I’m here because I want to help the Knicks win games.”

It’s still a non-answer, the type Tatsuya can get away with better, the type Daiki used to try not to give. But sometimes it’s better to deflect and disengage, and it’s hard to forget with the glut of unfamiliar faces shoving recording devices at him that he doesn’t know these people at all. They’re not the same press he’s spent years building a relationship with, who give him some leeway here and there. And so Daiki takes the opportunities as they come to mug for the cameras when he’s sick of faking nice with the reporters, to pull Tatsuya into his interviews when he gets tired of answering questions. Tatsuya knows what he’s doing and always shoots him a look before politely charming the press with his stock of easily-empty phrases until he wriggles out but the press have another reason to write his name down with something nice (and maybe it doesn’t mean shit, but the chance that it does garner some sort of public goodwill that might result in pressure on the front office to sign Tatsuya are greater than zero and that’s enough).

* * *

Satsuki calls to check in before the final game of the preseason; he tells her he’s feeling good and the Knicks have been good to him (it’s all true so far).

“Where are you staying? Have you found a place yet?”

“I’m staying with Tatsuya for now.”

“Oh, Dai-chan…still? After training camp?”

“It’s fine,” he says. “We’re both over it.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. We’re both adults. We know how to be friends.”

“I know,” says Satsuki.

They drop the subject, but Daiki’s still thinking about it when Tatsuya gets back. He’s drenched in sweat; his face is flushed. It’s like practice but without the constant odor of floor wax and the fluorescent lights overhead and Tatsuya looks gorgeous just standing in the doorframe, and Daiki can keep those thoughts to himself. He’s not going to hit on his ex as a guest in his house.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Can we talk in a bit?”

“Sure,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya disappears, probably off to take a shower. Daiki exhales. Is he being obvious? He hadn’t thought he was, but maybe Tatsuya knows anyway. Or maybe this is about overstaying his welcome; maybe Tatsuya’s going to hand him a pile of real estate fliers (it’s not his style, but Daiki can imagine it anyway). When Tatsuya sits down on the couch next to him, wet hair dripping all over, his hands are empty.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya. “If I don’t make the team, will you stay here?”

“If you don’t?”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “I got a couple of offers from teams in Italy and China; I’ll probably go over there. It would be nice if you could stay, housesit, water the plants…that kind of thing. You don’t have to; there’s no pressure, but…just so you know, the offer’s there.”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “I can do that.”

No new furniture, no renter’s insurance, no boxes of crap he’d shipped out from the storage facility in Ohio where all his stuff is, an apartment in a neighborhood he sort-of knows by memory still. No Tatsuya, though.

“Thanks,” says Tatsuya.

“Thank you,” says Daiki. “Saving me some work finding a place.”

The sentence lands flatter than a player taking a dive after an incidental brushback under the hoop, both of them too aware of what that’s contingent on, neither of them willing to bring up the possibility of Tatsuya making the team either. Daiki almost falls asleep on the couch, head lolling toward Tatsuya’s shoulder, before Tatsuya makes him get up and go to bed. Daiki wants to wish him luck but superstition (his or Tatsuya’s?) makes him bite his tongue.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says instead.

“Sleep well,” says Tatsuya.

* * *

They call all the non-roster invitees into the coach’s room after the last practice. Daiki hangs around, redoing his shoelaces and texting some of the guys back in Cleveland. He’s not really prepared to say anything either way—it’ll be easy enough if Tatsuya gets the contract he deserves, but if he doesn’t then that’s just going to be a clusterfuck. Tatsuya probably won’t want him to, and he probably won’t want Daiki’s sympathy or disappointment, but either way it’s no use speculating. He deserves it, and he’s going to get it.

Daiki’s phone buzzes. Tatsuya’s texted him; he says not to wait. Daiki’s shoulders clench. Is it a good not-to-wait? A bad not-to-wait? Is he going to stay in order to say goodbye to this place, or to sign a contract? A few of the other bubble players start to trickle in, some to grab their shit and some to wait it out a bit; Daiki could ask but he doesn’t. No one says anything to him, or seems to even notice really. Daiki texts Tatsuya back that he’ll be there, a lie that he’d forgotten his keys.

They’re all gone before Tatsuya gets in; Daiki’s leaning back in the locker and thinking about how this is going to probably fuck up his back and leave him sore tomorrow, but he forgets all that when he sees Tatsuya’s face. He’s smiling, softly like he physically can’t stop himself.

“Congratulations,” says Daiki.

That manages to get Tatsuya to kind of twist his expression into something else, already formulate some way to downplay his achievement.

“Tatsuya,” says Daiki. “I mean it. Yeah, you were already there but you made them see it and that’s something to celebrate, okay?”

At that, the smile’s back, and Daiki exhales.

“Shall we?” says Tatsuya.

He takes a long look at his name and the number 35 above his locker, right next to Daiki’s.

“Let me take you out,” says Daiki.

“Nowhere that’s off our meal plan,” says Tatsuya (and Daiki snorts at the mock-concern in his voice).

They end up at a second-tier steakhouse, an out-of-the-way spot where they used to go, one Daiki wasn’t sure still existed. Even without a reservation they can get in and sit at the familiar table at the back, and Daiki wonders if Tatsuya still goes here often, if he’s brought other dates here. It kind of makes him jealous for a second, but not really. Tatsuya’s definitely not seeing anyone else here, and Daiki’s the one he’s with right now, the one he’s looking at over the menu steadily.

The table’s too big for their feet to knock by accident, but they used to pretend to play it off that way, leaning over the table for the same side dish, fingers brushing fingers before handing over serving spoons. Daiki lets himself miss it, for a second or two, and then lets it sink back down in his memory like a leaf soaking with water that finally drops below the surface of a pond. They broke up for a collection of very good reasons; it’s not like they’d just randomly decided they shouldn’t stay together. Even within the memories of cool nights in the city, Tatsuya’s voice low in his ear, non-incidental physical contact, there are still so many stupid fights that carried on too long because they’d both been too stubborn to admit they were wrong and until there was calculated malice in Tatsuya’s words and impulsive malice in Daiki’s, both raw and real and well-aimed to cut each other down. It’s a good thing they’re no longer those same stupid kids playing footsie in a nice restaurant; it’s good to be here now, with all its context. It’s exciting to think about playing with Tatsuya every night. As the roster had thinned out they’d gotten more minutes together, and the games had started resembling realistic competitions with realistic strategies and it’s everything he’d thought playing with Tatsuya in the NBA would be. Daiki’s been able to rely on him as a guard, both offensively and defensively; he’s been able to trust his passes and trust him with the ball when he’s open. And now they’re going to get a whole year of that.

Tatsuya already seems so much freer now that he’s not worrying over his place on the team; his movements are a little looser and his face is brighter. It’s not in a totally tangible way, and if Daiki didn’t know how subtle Tatsuya could be he’d say he was imagining it, because who wouldn’t be happy? (Daiki would, instinctively, say Tatsuya; he would but he’s not sure that’s right anymore. He’s of course still disciplined, still partially trying to figure out how to climb up the depth chart, but he’s letting his happiness unfold, still guarded but not playing it close to the chest until it goes away like he used to.)

Tatsuya lets Daiki pay but insists on picking up the cab fare (it’ll probably end up ten percent of the price of dinner, if that, so whatever) and sits close to him in the backseat. They go up the highway, the distant trees in the park above them just starting to turn red and brown. Daiki’s about to say they should do this more often, but won’t things change when he moves out? He’s going to have to find a new place and leave and he can’t keep pushing that decision out into the future any longer.

“You still want to stay?”

It’s offered more as a statement than a question, Tatsuya’s words curling up at the end like an afterthought, like meat left too long on the skillet. Their thoughts are in the same place, apparently.

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

He could self-justify, say he doesn’t want to deal with having to rent something but it’s not the whole truth and it would probably come off too much like a deflection he doesn’t want to make.

“Okay,” says Tatsuya. “I won’t kick you out.”

There’s an easiness to the smile he flashes at Daiki before turning back to the window, the empty baseball field behind him apparently a far more interesting sight. Daiki grins at him from the other side, and neither of them has to do anything for Daiki to know it’s absolutely getting through to him.

* * *

There’s something running through Daiki’s veins, in his blood and pumped through his heart, when he’s waiting for the long and dragged-out ceremony before their opener against Miami starts. He’s not the only impatient one; their starting rookie center is flexing his hands in anticipation and some of the other guys keep wiping off more and more sweat. But it’s not just about starting this night; it’s not even really about wearing this uniform and calling MSG (part five) home. It’s that he’s ready for it, all of it. He’s ready to take the ball and do what he can, crowd out the other team and keep them from scoring; he’s ready to do it in a real game that counts for something in the standings and he’s ready to make this crowd of strangers cheer for him. This new team (if it really is new anymore) is just another challenge, the kind that wants him to rise to it, and he’s almost forgotten how good that is. It’s not insurmountable, pushing his body over injuries that are just going to strike him back down; it’s not trying to fight against the will of some so-called business decision. It’s just basketball, and Daiki knows how to do that.

He’s grinning at the tipoff, waiting just a few moments more for it to start, for everything to fall into place and then it does. He barely touches the ball on the first few possessions, one wild defensive swing to force an errant pass when his fingers brush the outside and one quick pass to him before he sees the open man on the outside and swings the ball over there for him to make a no-contest three. It still feels like he’s with the ball on every play, though; he sees where it’s going and follows it, takes his place in the play until he gets tired of waiting and strikes. The Heat’s power forward is young and easily-intimidated; he pulls back and Daiki can see the flash of his plastic mouth guard as he pursues, move-for-move. He’s about to go out of bounds, dribbles slower; Daiki swipes the ball out of his hand and rolls down the court. The only other guy back is their point guard, breathing hard (still hasn’t gotten his stamina up), so fuck it. Daiki dunks.

The crowd roars as he lands on his feet, bouncing on his soles as his teammates come in to pat him on the back. It’s enough of a statement; they’re here to win and make fools out of the Heat. He doesn’t need to show off much more unless they loosen their grip, but everyone’s fired up. It’s a good thing, because Daiki’s not going to try and lay down five dunks in a quarter again (he probably could, but it’s definitely a bad idea for his body).

Tatsuya switches in two possessions later, there for the sole purpose of hitting a three and a layup before he comes out again. He doesn’t fight it; he seems almost okay with it when Daiki comes out (and even the adrenaline can’t stop him from feeling the hard minutes right off the bat). They lean together over the clipboard, Tatsuya playfully shoving Daiki back when he gets his sweat on Tatsuya’s towel and Daiki bumping his shoulder in return.

They always have control, even when the Heat start to catch up and briefly overtake them in the third. It’s never something that feels like it’s slipping away, more like a cat letting a mouse dart away before slamming its paw down. A free throw, an alley-oop, and a few layups later they’re back on top, grinding on Miami’s tails beneath their claws. Tatsuya’s up to eleven points in limited minutes by now; Daiki’s still on the bench when he gets thrown back into it the next time and he leans forward.

They put him at the point since their three-point specialist is on the wing; he runs the first play by the book and they get the easy two and then it’s back the other way. The Miami guard passes to their big man, all alone out back, and he takes a stupidly long three before anyone can get to him or set up a play, but it somehow gets in. And then Tatsuya has the ball back, dribbling down the court; the other point guard is in his face jawing at him and then—the ball slips out of his hand; he lunges but it lands in the wrong spot and they’re going back again, too quick for Tatsuya to catch up and steal it back.

Daiki’s leaning even farther forward; how angry is Tatsuya going to get? He can see the way Tatsuya’s shoulders are up and tight, but the back of his head’s to the Knicks’ bench until he gets to the half court line. His gaze is sharp and hard, his face braced against something like that, but instead of doing something dumb or overly-cautious he drives right by his defender, straight in toward the net, and passes down low. Daiki doesn’t see the ball through the mass of bodies but his suspicion is confirmed when, rising into a perfect j, is their three-point specialist in the corner. The three goes in with nothing but net, and Tatsuya’s posture is much more relaxed as they head back down.

Apparently somewhere along the road Tatsuya had started paying more than lip service to keeping a cool head and not letting the opposition get to him, not worrying too much or taking stupid risks. He’d known all along the pass was going to connect; he’d known exactly where their two was going to be; he’d kept it in focus instead of worrying about himself and his own game even after making a big, dumb mistake that’s showing up on an official scoresheet.

Daiki slaps him on the back when he comes back to the bench, harder than he has to, and Tatsuya looks at him a little bit challengingly, a little bit questioningly. Daiki’s not going to say it when both of them know and he’s coming back in soon, so he just leans back in his chair, and Tatsuya apparently finds that satisfactory.

They win by a comfortable margin; it’s only the first game but it’s a damn nice way to start the season, until Daiki wakes up stiff the next morning and feels like he can barely roll over. Tatsuya’s in the kitchen, acting like he’s not sore at all except for the tiny hitch in the way he walks (that Daiki probably only sees because he’s looking for it).

“Want to go for a run before practice?” Tatsuya says.

He’s wearing that particular smile, and the answer is no, Daiki does not want to, thank you very much.

“Sure,” he says.

Tatsuya puts extra cream in his coffee, and Daiki supposes that’s a fair trade.

* * *

Starting the season with three straight wins feels damn good. They’re not flukes, the result of someone on the other team airballing the three that would have sent the game to overtime or beating teams who are still rusty or predicted bottom-feeders (though all of those would have still counted in the win column regardless). It’s a small sample size, not even a streak yet, but they’re already playing better than any team Daiki’s played on in years. It’s enough to almost forget the impending cold weather, the stiffness hovering in the air around them in the mornings, the feeling of waking up and not wanting to move but needing to slam the damn window shut.

It's a little harder to forget when Tatsuya skypes Taiga back in LA when they’re hanging out in the living room together. Taiga’s skin’s still glowing with a summery tan, his face still fresh and bright; it makes him look like he’s gotten younger instead of older, damn him.

“The surf was great this morning,” he’s saying, glancing out the window because it’s still barely light out over there. “Most of the tourists are gone and the kids are in school. Just me and a few other people, and it was, you know.”

Daiki doesn’t, but he’s not the real target of this conversation anyway.

“I’m glad,” says Tatsuya. “Catch any good waves?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Taiga. “Nothing huge, but there were some good ones I got at just the right time.”

Daiki flips him the bird; he’s trying to make retirement sound enticing again and it’s not going to work.

“Whoa, whoa,” says Taiga. “You can retire any time you want.”

Mellowed by age and relaxation, Taiga’s not as easy to set off, but it’s still fun to mess with him—and the exchange itself gets an amused glance from Tatsuya, so it’s totally worth it. Daiki’s always gotten satisfaction out of that, the short smiles and the tone of Tatsuya’s voice turning warmer as if Daiki had placed a hot plate under it. So Daiki plays it up for a little more and stays longer than usual before letting the two of them have their alone time, because that always makes Tatsuya a little happier and makes Taiga less likely to send him a flurry of argumentative text messages when Daiki’s too tired to bother answering.

Daiki’s already got the water on for pasta by the time Tatsuya’s done, and Tatsuya gets out the chicken to stir-fry it. It’s an easy standby meal, but Tatsuya’s been making it interesting so far, marinating the chicken differently or using some kind of lemon olive oil on the pasta instead of regular.

“Thanks,” Tatsuya says, pointing his shoulder at the water.

“Hey, no problem,” says Daiki. “You’re doing the hard part.”

Tatsuya inclines his head; he’s not going to argue it out for the sake of politeness even though he’d claimed this morning that this marinade was no big deal.

“Taiga’s really enjoying himself, huh?” says Daiki.

Tatsuya smiles. “Retirement suits him. It’s good to see him so relaxed.”

He genuinely means every word, and Daiki feels a little bit stupid for wishing Taiga was still competing against them, that they’d have that to look forward to on the schedule.

“Do you think he would have liked staying?” It comes out petty and whiny.

“No,” says Tatsuya, “Do you remember his last year?”

Daiki remembers Taiga being short and abrupt with him when they talked, always napping or having some sort of excuse, playing like his heart wasn’t in it. He’d thought there was something going on, some injury he’d been keeping quiet or some personal issue he didn’t want to talk about, and then at the end of the season he’d retired with a year left on his contract.

“Yeah,” says Daiki, scuffing the linoleum with his toe.

He gets being tired of basketball, the feeling of disconnection; he’s been there before—but every time he’s only wanted to get back; he’s only waited on circumstances changing so he can find his way back out of the labyrinth because he always does; he and basketball always find each other again. There’s nothing specific like Kise’s ankles or Akashi’s family obligations pushing him out of the game, nothing like Midorima quitting because of his own dissatisfaction or Murasakibara due to just wanting to be done or Tetsu because of sheer physical taxation. Daiki had always thought Taiga was like him, that he’d have to be dragged out of playing pro ball by arena security at age sixty or some shit, and this still sort of feels like betrayal.

Tatsuya pats Daiki’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and lets his hand rest there for a little longer than necessary. “I miss him, too. And I know it’s selfish, to want to keep playing basketball at the highest level against him…but knowing he’s happy makes it easier.”

Right, that was their childhood dream, making it to the NBA together and wearing the same all-star uniforms; Daiki remembers Taiga tell him that once when they’d all been young and drunk. Tatsuya’s speaking so calmly, poker face like always, and even his tone isn’t particularly bitter. Is it just as bad for him? Worse?

It’s a lot for Daiki to think about but it’s driven out the next night when they play the Mavs. They win again, by a lot, but Tatsuya’s in high-stress mode from the start, fumbling an easy pass and clearly letting it stick with him throughout the game. It’s not a terrible game but it’s worse than the precedent Tatsuya’s set for himself so far and that can only mean it’s fathoms below the impossibly-high bar he never lets himself clear.

Tatsuya’s still thinking about it the next morning, gone out for a run before Daiki wakes up and silent on the train ride to practice. He tells Daiki not to wait for him afterward because he’s staying in the video room, and Daiki lets him. It’s probably going to make Tatsuya madder after stewing in his own perceived incompetence, but he doesn’t want to start shit right now.

He’s browsing the takeout menus, wondering how much grease he has to blot off a slice of pizza before he can justify eating it, when Tatsuya gets home. He calls out a greeting and sounds a hell of a lot closer to calm than he had earlier, and he’s got a bag of groceries in each hand.

“How was the video?” Daiki says, digging through the first grocery bag for snacks. It’s all vegetables, and not even something like celery he can just rinse and eat.

“It was good,” says Tatsuya. “I think I got it.”

Daiki’s not sure what he’s referring to (whatever misstep had led to his shitty pass? Some other flaw he now knows how to conquer? How to be calm?), but if it solves whatever’s the matter then it’s all good.

Maybe it’s just the alone time, the feeling of control when Tatsuya’s the only one in the room, free to overanalyze his own moves and be as self-involved and hypercritical as he wants to. Maybe he needs some or all of that, and it lets him refresh, wash his preoccupations away before the next ones come in; maybe it had been building up before and the last game had been the thing that sent it over the edge.

Tatsuya’s making something complicated for dinner tonight, some recipe that Daiki, with his adequate-for-someone-living-alone-for-years cooking skills, isn’t even going to try. He helps cut the vegetables, though, and Tatsuya seems pleased with his work. He goes to bed early, probably tired from being so angry, and Daiki feels something like relief spread through him. That’s not quite right; it’s closer to the removal of anticipation of something that’s not going to happen. Tatsuya’s not faking the calm; he’s not snapping back into anger the minute something bad happens. And, Daiki supposes, the idea of that isn’t as strange as it once had been.

* * *

After nabbing himself a double-double, Daiki feels he’s completely justified in taking an extra-long postgame shower. A few press members are still hanging at his locker by the time he gets out, though; Tatsuya’s entertaining them while he adjusts his tie.

“Five of your six assists were on Aomine’s shots; you two have such good chemistry,” says one reporter (she’s one of the earnest young ones fresh out of school on her first big beat). “Is it because you’ve known each other so long?”

“That’s part of it,” says Tatsuya. “But I think it comes from similar habits, similar attitudes toward basketball…what would you say, Daiki?”

The reporters hadn’t really noticed him until then but they suddenly shift their attention at hearing his name, moving in a giant clump toward Daiki as he makes his way to his locker. Tatsuya smiles (damn him), but as soon as the press are all out of the way a couple of the younger guys approach him. Daiki fires off random bullshit about their chemistry and how good it felt to have a double-double (of course, not as good as the win itself). By the time they’re satisfied, one of the kids, Perez, their starting small forward, is still talking with Tatsuya. Daiki isn’t actively trying to eavesdrop, but their lockers are right next to each other and it just happens.

“I was wondering if you could, uh,” says Perez, rubbing the back of his neck. “Take a look at my j in practice? Like, once we’re done, you know?”

“Sure,” says Tatsuya.

The kid tries not to smile too hard and jams his hands into his pocket; it looks awkward as hell in a suit but it’s kind of amusing. He struts out of the locker room with that I’m-a-cool-guy walk Daiki remembers doing himself at that age.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan,” says Daiki.

“He’s a good kid,” says Tatsuya. “He and a bunch of the others were watching me watch tape on the plane the other day; they just want a few pointers.”

And they think Tatsuya, not the coaches or another veteran (say, Daiki), is the right guy for the job—which is totally true. Ever since Tatsuya had come up there have been puff pieces written about what a student of the game he is, how he’s going to make a great coach one day, how devoted he is to scouting his opponents and what a coachable player he is. Some of them are dumb and clearly written to fill out some kind of quota, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a valid premise.

“You want some pointers, too?” says Tatsuya.

He says it with a smile, clearly half in jest. It’s halfway serious too, though, and honestly Daiki’s keen on the idea. It’ll be better than forcing himself to watch his own video again for sure. He nods.

“Only if you’ve got time.”

“Of course I have time for you,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki pulls hard on his shoelace and it nearly snaps; he looks down and it’s all caught in a snarl. That had sounded almost like open, intentional flirting, but maybe that’s only because Daiki wants it to sound that way. He’s reading too much into it, even if it is Tatsuya.

“You ready? Team bus won’t wait for us forever,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki won’t trip over his shoelace on the way. He grabs his coat and walks out at Tatsuya’s side.

Tatsuya knocks on his hotel room early the next morning, laptop tucked under his arm.

“There’s no practice today,” he says. “But we can look at video.”

Daiki waves Tatsuya in, suppressing a yawn. The sun’s too bright outside the shades already and his body’s still an hour early, but he might as well do this. Tatsuya boots up his computer, setting it on the bed and heading over to the coffee machine. It’s some weird gourmet shit (since this is a classy hotel), but it smells good and by the time Daiki has some in his hands he’s already starting to feel a little more awake.

He’s still close enough to dreaming that he lets himself look at Tatsuya, the lines of sun cutting through the shades and reflecting off his hair, the quiet tiredness on his face that he always insists isn’t there.

“Where do you want to start?”

Daiki takes a generous gulp of coffee, ignoring the way it burns his tongue. “Yesterday’s game is fine.”

It was a good game, but a million coaches’ voices in his head are telling him that good isn’t flawless. And games like that for him are games when he can still get away with a formless shot, when he can feel the ball fly off his fingers and he’s not thinking about where he’s putting his feet or what he’s doing with his arms, and soon enough he’ll play a game where he doesn’t have it and can’t get away with that shit and struggles with remembering the right position through a quarter or two.

In the beginning of the game, his form’s good. Tatsuya slows down the video to half speed, replays a shot where everything does what it’s supposed to, and he looks at Daiki.

“Looks fine to me. You see anything?”

Tatsuya shakes his head but they watch a few more times anyway. They skip past the parts Daiki doesn’t play, analyzing the way he runs and each pass and shot and rebound, Tatsuya identifying when he jumps too soon but makes the shot anyway, when he puts too much of his left arm in a quick chest pass and the backspin sends it a little to the side, and had the receiver been standing farther away he might not have held on. Finally, they see another shot that looks absolutely perfect to Daiki.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” says Tatsuya.

“No, I’m not,” says Daiki. “That looks exactly like the other one.”

Tatsuya drags the cursor back to the beginning of the video and replays the first shot. It looks the same to Daiki. Then he drags the cursor forward again, and—fuck. It is different, the ever-so-slight drop in Daiki’s right elbow offset by some other part of him or just not enough to matter.

“How the hell do you notice all this?” says Daiki.

“Practice,” says Tatsuya.

“I’ve been doing this for a few years already,” says Daiki.

“I’ve been doing it for twenty-five,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki shuts up after that. They watch more; even later in the game his elbow’s dropping more and Tatsuya definitely could have seen that while watching that from the bench or a couple of meters away on the court. But that doesn’t explain how he’d found the precise moment Daiki’s elbow dropped, and holy shit. Twenty-five years? He’s been doing this for more than half his life, since middle school. Daiki had always known how analytical Tatsuya could be, but he never remembers him paying this much attention to video when he hadn’t made a huge mistake, an occasional retrospective here and there but never this.

But before now, how much of Tatsuya in the middle of the season had Daiki known? They’d called and texted when they were together, sure, but there’s no reason Tatsuya couldn’t have had several windows of his own video open in the background. They’d only stayed a night or two together here and there, and Daiki had put aside some of his own routines to get the most out of those nights. He’d still probably done it in the offseason, but they’d always had alone time even then, and, well, it’s Tatsuya. He’s always got something he thinks he needs to hide for whatever reason. And back then there had been so much that Tatsuya had never shared, so many parts of him that had been locked away. And this one is just one of several that Daiki’s not privy to, because they’re no longer involved or because time has rusted through Tatsuya’s locks or both. He’s not sure what to say, what to do, so he just shifts a little closer to Tatsuya on the bed and tries to focus on the video.

Daiki focuses on his elbow the next day at practice, trying to feel it move in the right way. He ends up throwing a few airballs but the coaches compliment him on his focus on form. He stays afterward, shooting until it starts to feel alright and he has to concentrate less. At the other end of the court, Tatsuya’s helping Perez, stepping in just as he’s about to shoot and pulling his arms into the right position. Daiki imagines, for a second, asking Tatsuya to help him with that, Tatsuya’s fingers skimming along his arms, and—no. He tells himself to think about his elbow instead.

“It already looks better,” Tatsuya says on his way back to the locker room.

From Tatsuya, that’s high praise, and Daiki’s going to savor it.

* * *

Daiki makes his way to the bathroom in the morning, almost tripping over his own foot before rubbing his eyes and elbowing the door shut behind him. He’s debating whether to shower now or after breakfast when he looks at the sink and that makes up his mind for him. It’s the second time in the past few weeks Tatsuya hasn’t cleaned it out very well after shaving; there’s still a bunch of hairs around the rim. Daiki’s no neat freak, but even he has higher standards than Tatsuya, who clearly hasn’t really grown out of his tendency toward being a slob. When they were dating, it used to bug Daiki to no end when Tatsuya did that, but back then it had been worse and more often. It’s still fucking gross, though.

“I’m not cleaning your hair off the sink,” says Daiki as he walks into the kitchen.

“Oh,” says Tatsuya. “I’ll do it when I’m done.”

He motions to the mostly-completed newspaper crossword on the kitchen table, spotted with grease from the butter on his toast.

“You missed a spot anyway,” says Daiki.

“Oh?” says Tatsuya, rubbing at his cheek.

“A little to the right—there.”

Tatsuya rubs harder and frowns. “You’re messing with me.”

“Yeah,” says Daiki, grinning.

Tatsuya folds what remains of his toast and stuffs it in his mouth and fills out the rest of the crossword. Then he’s gone, back in a few minutes smelling like soap. Daiki’s staring at the stove still, unable to think of what he wants to eat. Tatsuya plops the bag of bread down in front of him.

“Toast?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

It’s another quiet morning after that, the way most of their mornings at home are. Some days they go running; some days they wait for practice to work out; some days off they do neither. They get up around the same time, take the same post-practice nap with just the thin plaster wall between them, and then go to the game if there is one.

If not, they’ll play ball in the park sometimes, trying to catch the fading evening light and playing hard enough so they can ditch their hoodies but not so hard they injure themselves. It’s a little like how he remembers from that summer but the court they go to has been renovated and there are too many new buildings on the walk back and forth. It reminds Daiki more of Cleveland, of shooting alone in his driveway, of having the extra key to the practice facility and going in and playing alone. It’s so much better having Tatsuya with him, being able to grab the keys and stuff his feet into his backup sneakers and jerk his head toward the door and have Tatsuya pick up a ball and follow.

After that they go back and make dinner, or really Tatsuya makes dinner and Daiki tries to help or just watches and lets himself, for a few moments while Tatsuya’s completely absorbed in the task at hand, want. He wants to kiss the base of Tatsuya’s neck sometimes, feel the cold chain on his chin; sometimes he gets caught up enough to imagine when it had actually happened in the same kitchen and he knows what happens next, pulling Tatsuya against him, into his lap, moving his lips to Tatsuya’s cheek and feeling Tatsuya’s skin under his mouth as he smiles. He can’t do that now, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much of a weird stupid crush he’s building up for Tatsuya, built out of the crater of his old feelings their breakup had left but very much tied to the present, this Tatsuya, calmer and fairer and less explosive. He pushes it aside, because he’s not going to let it make what they have right now, friendship, companionship, get weird, because no matter how different they both are now there’s no way it’s not ending the same way.

* * *

Daiki finds himself wanting to show off for Tatsuya on the court, like he’s twenty-three again and this is the only way he knows how to impress someone he’s interested in (and, well, it had worked back then, with Tatsuya and with other people, but Daiki would like to think he can get by on just his personality at this point). He goes for dumb shots because he knows they’d look cool and then tells himself Tatsuya would like it better if he’d focus on his form, so he does that instead, switching modes during games. His production is dipping, not far but enough to make an obvious dent and defeat the whole purpose of all of this, and Daiki decides he’s going to figure it out.

The game against Charlotte is the perfect opportunity; Daiki’s going to be matched against Jackson, the Hornets’ top-prospect-for-three-years-now who still hasn’t panned out; it won’t matter much if he has to make a few in-game adjustments to focus on the right things or if he has to take the occasional step back. Yeah, Jackson’s supposed to be better this year, and he’s playing less sloppy so far, but he’s still the same guy.

The thing that doesn’t quite show up on video, though, is Jackson’s situational awareness. In previous years, he’d looked almost lost until somehow stumbling under the net to make a block or grab a rebound; he’d pass to the least-open man as much as the most-open man, and though once in a while he’d make a highlight-reel shot, it probably hadn’t been worth it for all the other shit he’d been doing. This year he’s sharper on the ball, glancing quicker and more confident in his moves, and it’s all Daiki can do to keep up.

It does get him to stop thinking about impressing Tatsuya, though, at least until the game is over and they’ve squeaked out a win.

A couple of the guys tell him to come over and play cards, and bring Tatsuya if he can. After changing into more comfortable clothes, Daiki goes over to Tatsuya’s door and knocks. It’s a few moments before Tatsuya opens the door. He’s just taken another shower; he smells like the fancy perfumed hotel shampoo and there’s a fluffy towel over his hair and the ends of his faded college team t-shirt are clearly damp. Daiki’s seen him like this so many times in the past couple of months alone, after practices and games and in their apartment and still, there’s something about Tatsuya like this, right now, that makes his face heat up.

“Uh. There’s card games in Wallace’s room. You in?”

“Sure,” says Tatsuya. “Wait for me?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “Of course.”

* * *

The game against Brooklyn a week later starts out easy, and Tatsuya starts out on the bench. Daiki tries not to be aware of that, but he knows Tatsuya’s watching. He knows Tatsuya’s been working extra-hard on defense lately, and it’s easy to get caught up in the moment and the tangle of limbs under the hoop and jump for a block he might have made ten years ago but probably won’t now.

He’s shoved out of the way by the other team’s center and immediately the refs blow their whistles and Daiki doesn’t even know who’s got the foul call but he’s off-balance and falling back and he’s not ready for the ground when all of a sudden his left foot slams down against it. He feels his ankle twist and buckle, and he knows the rest of him’s going down to follow but there’s nothing he can do, even catch himself because the pain rips through him like an electric shock. Daiki closes his eyes, tries to breathe; most of him’s okay but he’s still sort of sitting on top of that ankle. He pushes it out from under him, to another wave of pain, and fuck. This isn’t good; he’s not getting back in the game. Is it broken? He hadn’t heard or felt anything crack, but that doesn’t mean shit. There are more whistles in the background, and then a hand on his shoulder.

“Aomine, you okay, man?” It’s their point guard, Wallace; Daiki tries to focus on his voice.

“Fuck, no. My ankle.”

“It’s his ankle! Get the trainer out here!”

And then the trainer’s there, asking him to sit up and Daiki complies, opening his eyes and God, the lights are bright. He tries to push himself to his feet, but the trainer’s holding him back.

“It’s your left ankle?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

He lets the trainer and Wallace, who’s over with them, help him to his feet, and leans on the trainer. He tries to put weight on the ankle, but it won’t stand much. It’s enough for him to limp off, hugely favoring his right side. He doesn’t get a glimpse of Tatsuya on the bench before they’re in the trainer’s room, asking him questions about how it hurt and what it feels like.

They say it’s most likely a sprain but take him to the hospital anyway; they’re showing the game on TV while he waits for the x-ray to come back. Tatsuya’s out there now, fiercely driving to the net and aggressively defending, and Daiki wishes he were there in person to at least see it (or be a part of it).

“Still focused on your work, huh?” says the doctor, while knocking on the open door.

Daiki shrugs. “You know.”

“Well, good news. It looks like it’s just a sprain.”

“How long?”

The doctor looks down at her clipboard. “About six weeks, most likely, but we’ll reevaluate it every week or so in case there’s a hairline fracture we couldn’t pick up or it turns out to be less severe. Right now, you just need to keep off it, put on some ice to keep the swelling down.”

Daiki’s sprained his other ankle before; he’s pretty sure he knows the deal. He takes the paper the doctor gives him anyway. The doctor’s no doubt been told to deliver the news to the team. Daiki sighs. He hadn’t had time to grab his phone; he should text Tatsuya about it. On the television, the Knicks have already won; they replay his fall again. Shit, he’d only had four points, too. He wonders who they’re going to send to pick him up from the hospital, probably one of the trainers.

It turns out, half an hour later, to be Tatsuya. He’s got Daiki’s stuff and makes him call the team doctor to confirm his release; his medical records have all been faxed over and he’s supposed to come in tomorrow for an in-person next-day checkup.

“You did good,” Daiki tells Tatsuya when they’re waiting for the cab. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

* * *

Daiki had almost forgotten the Cavs would be in town a few days later, and he’s almost relieved to be missing it. The Cavs still feel like his team to a pretty high degree, though less so than they had at the beginning of the season. It’s not like he’d suddenly start passing to the guys in red and gold uniforms, but it’s not going to feel perfectly right not to. He shows up to the game early, because he knows the Cleveland writers will be there, and they’re practically staking him out as he walks into the arena.

“Daiki! How does it feel to be rooting against the Cavs?”

“How much do you wish you were playing right now?”

“Is the team going to make a big statement for you?”

Daiki almost rolls his eyes at that last one. These people never change, but it’s still so nice to see them again, the Plain Dealer’s beat writer with her ridiculous hat and the color guy from the radio station and his big teeth, and no Daiki is not feeling weirdly homesick about it. It’s just sudden. He coughs.

“It’s good, uh, to see you all again.”

“How do you think the game is going to go?”

“The Knicks are going to win.”

“Even without you?”

Daiki grins. “I got faith in my boys. They can hold the fort down.”

He remembers saying roughly the same thing last year when his hand first got fucked up, without really meaning it, and it had come out of his mouth bitter, but this year he does. Sure, they’re still thin at forward, but they have a solid roster with good chemistry (for whatever that’s worth) and the skills and stamina to keep up two-way play.

“You do wish you were playing, though?”

“Well, yeah,” says Daiki. “But stuff happens.”

He waves one crutch around and that gets a laugh out of the media.

The game isn’t very pretty; it’s physical from the outset. Daiki’s replacements are apparently straight out of some goon squad, and one of them gets a flagrant five minutes into the game. Daiki knows he shouldn’t get pissed off about this all over again, but he kind of is. The Cavs’ front office really thought that was a better idea than him? (They’re probably making more money, too, not that Daiki wants or needs more but it’s the principle of the thing, that they’d refuse to shell out a few million for Daiki but gladly give more to players like that.)

The Knicks aren’t a big team but they’re not intimidated, either; they meet every shove with a basket or a solid block. When Tatsuya steals the ball off the Cavs’ lumbering power forward, some dude who used to play for Denver, Daiki almost claps for him. It’s good to see that, a vicarious strike against those younger, supposedly-less-over-the-hill guys, against the bullshit words he can still hear in his ears about the risk of signing someone like him.

The Knicks squeak out a win and Daiki can’t stop grinning for the rest of the night.

* * *

The good feelings about the team don’t outweigh being injured for long, though. It’s not like it was last year, when he’d never felt good, but it might be worse in some ways. He’d been playing so well before and now he can’t really fucking walk; he’s itching to play again and he hates being isolated from the team. He comes by practice for PT, and he’s still living with Tatsuya, and he’s at every home game on the sidelines in a suit, but it’s not the same. They’re developing a rapport without him, and how’s he going to fit back in? Last year he never could. Last year, he reminds himself, he hadn’t in the first place.

It’s not really much of a comfort, so in some ways Daiki’s glad when the team heads out on another road trip, this time to the west coast. He doesn’t have to check himself before snapping at Tatsuya (especially because Tatsuya fucking hovers even now Daiki’s off crutches); he doesn’t have to lie around being bored; he doesn’t have to pull at the cuffs of his suit while the Knicks try to figure out yet another team, at least for a few days.

Satsuki calls on Christmas; Daiki’s got Knicks-Lakers on the TV and Tatsuya’s just sunk a pretty three, smile flickering on his face. Fuck, Daiki wants to play; fuck, Daiki wants Tatsuya (another good thing about him not being there is that it gives Daiki space, finally, to try and deal with his ridiculous crush).

“Merry Christmas, Dai-chan.”

“Merry Christmas, Satsuki. Hot date?”

“Just came back from it,” she says, all smug and married (whatever, she’s happy).

“And you called me, wow.”

Satsuki laughs. “I didn’t want you to be lonely.”

“Hey,” says Daiki. “How do you know I don’t have a dozen hot chicks cooing over my injured ankle?”

“Because I know you,” says Satsuki.

“Whatever,” says Daiki. “I’m not lonely.”

And he’s not; even alone in the apartment watching everyone else play when it’s mid-morning in Los Angeles an entire content away, he’s really not.

“I’m glad,” says Satsuki. “I was worried about you, last year especially.”

“I wasn’t lonely there; I was happy. I had a team. And stuff.”

(So he wasn’t exactly happy per se, but he had a place there, and a life.)

“Of course you weren’t,” says Satsuki in that humoring-you voice she uses when she thinks she’s so right.

Daiki falls asleep on the couch, keeping his ankle elevated on the arm. He wakes up to a text from Tatsuya. The Knicks have since lost, but from what Daiki had seen Tatsuya did well. He texts back a congratulation for doing well against his hometown team; Tatsuya tells him not to say that unless they win. Typical, the way he’d always been back then, when Daiki would catch his games when he could and text him about the triple-double or the buzzer-beater to send the game into OT.

The next day is unusually hot, their one day of midwinter where everything is warm and people expose their pale legs in shorts even though that’s kind of stretching it. It’s cloudy and humid, the skies threatening rain, and Daiki’s got no reason to go out what with his ankle and all. He does all the assigned PT exercises, does stuff for his arms, and takes another nap on the couch. He has a dream about diving in a pool and wakes up drenched in sweat because the living room window’s still closed and he’d had a blanket over him. Sighing, Daiki cracks it open and makes his way to the bedroom. It’s much cooler in there, like sitting right under the air conditioner, cooling the sweat on his skin, like being in the bedroom on the other side of the wall almost fifteen years ago, with Tatsuya. Daiki’s thought about this, many times before, but never let himself get farther than this, reminded himself Tatsuya could walk in any minute, that this is Tatsuya’s apartment—but fuck it. He lives here, too; Tatsuya’s not back for another three days or so; he’s horny and today in particular feels like back then. Daiki flops on the bed and shoves his shorts and underwear down, spits on his hand and grabs his already-hardening cock.

He lets himself think about Tatsuya, naked and sweaty next to him, taking a drink from the bottle of water in his hands and it dribbles down past the side of his mouth, spilling over his rosy lips. Daiki had kissed them until they were warm all over again and they’re grinding their hips together already, Daiki flopping his arm around reaching for the lube because he can’t look away. Tatsuya’s face is flushed, his breath hitching; his hair is plastered to his face and neck but his bangs are lifted aside and Daiki can see the other eye peeking out; Tatsuya moans something that sounds close enough to Daiki’s name for Daiki to shudder; he bites the flesh of Tatsuya’s shoulder and Tatsuya moans again and it turns into a squeak when Daiki rolls his hips just so and in the present Daiki’s coming already (God, he has no stamina anymore).

He catches his breath as he comes down, until he actually starts to feel gross with the dried come on his hands and sticking his thighs to his shorts. He tosses them into the hamper and goes to the bathroom to clean off and stare at him in the mirror. This isn’t just some dumb crush; it’s a dumb, big crush; all of his self-control is crumbling away, faster and faster like a melting glacier. He’s told himself, over again, that the Tatsuya he wants is the young one and only on his good days, but that’s a lie. Yeah, he remembers it well; yeah, it would be nice if their bodies were younger, less touched by age and surgery, but he hadn’t enjoyed living with Tatsuya nearly this much back then. It had been like walking on marzipan and squishing everything sometimes, wondering if the Tatsuya he’d wake up to today was going to be withdrawn or if he’d be up for whatever or if he’d just pretend to be. This Tatsuya smiles easier, lets things go and truly picks his battles instead of building up a mountain of grudges, keeps his claws retracted. And back then, Daiki himself hadn’t tried hard enough to get Tatsuya, had just waited whatever it was out, hadn’t come to meet him in the middle or even made the effort in the first place. If the price of changing that is the time, then it’s a small price to pay.

But that would be, once again, ignoring Tatsuya’s feelings for his own. Tatsuya’s been flirting with him, but part of that’s just who Tatsuya is. He’s never done that when they’ve hung out with Taiga, though, but the last time was a year and change ago. But does that just mean he doesn’t want to do this in front of Taiga? And what does that mean itself? Daiki glares at his reflection. There’s no way he’s keeping this a secret from Tatsuya, if he ever had.

He’s got a few days to prepare, but there’s no real preparation to be done. He can’t prepare to tell Tatsuya or not to; it’s just going to happen or he’ll chicken out. Maybe the anticipation is the worst part, the liminality of the few days of nothing.

Tatsuya gets back in the middle of the afternoon, and Daiki totally hasn’t been waiting on the couch since Tatsuya had texted him that the flight had landed. He’s just casually watching television, not turning toward the door every time something that could maybe be a key in the lock sounds.

But then it does; then Tatsuya’s there in the doorway, looking exactly the same as he had last week, and before Daiki knows what he’s doing he blurts out, “Do you ever think about giving us another try?”

It’s not even a hello or a welcome home; it’s just the question. Tatsuya stands still in the doorway, his suitcase still behind him in the hall. Then he pulls the key from the lock, lifts his suitcase up and in, and closes the door behind him. He walks two steps into the living room and then stops.

“Yes.”

He meets Daiki’s gaze squarely, takes a few steps closer. There’s something attached to the yes, some kind of usual Tatsuya caveat; Daiki moves over on the couch to give him room. Tatsuya sits down, carefully keeping to his side, not reaching over to touch Daiki or accept his hand half-offered.

“We need to talk,” says Tatsuya. “About before, regardless of what we do now.”

Daiki nods. Tatsuya’s right, because they haven’t; Daiki’s come to his own conclusions but they might be vastly different from Tatsuya’s even if they both end up speculating roughly the same thing.

“I know I hurt you,” says Tatsuya. “Sometimes on purpose, sometimes knowing I would, and I know I hid things and picked passive-aggressive fights with you just to have an excuse to cut myself off. And I really am sorry.”

He doesn’t try to excuse himself (but he never has); the apology’s sincere, though, and even though there’s nothing from back then that hasn’t scarred over Daiki appreciates it all the same.

“I did provoke you sometimes, though,” he says.

“Doesn’t mean I should have taken the bait,” says Tatsuya.

“Well, yeah, but it’s a two-way street and all that,” says Daiki. “You ran away, I pushed you farther; I demanded too much and I didn’t try to fix things, I just let it get fucked up and ignored it until I couldn’t, and that’s just. That’s just a shitty way to be in a relationship.”

“I took advantage of that,” says Tatsuya, quieter, looking down at his hands. “I dragged it out just to see how far you’d let me go; I just waited for you to start hating me but I didn’t want to openly break things off myself.”

“Hey,” says Daiki. “No one likes doing that.”

Tatsuya looks back up at him.

“We both fucked up,” says Daiki. “We were young and stupid and living apart for most of the year, and I don’t know. We get along better now; I like living with you now. And there was a reason I kept coming back to you before; I want the best of that but I want this, too.”

“And you think it can work,” says Tatsuya.

“Obviously it won’t if we don’t try,” says Daiki. “But look. I have these feelings; you have them, too, right?”

Tatsuya nods.

“And we haven’t let them drive us apart as friends, so if we can, like, express them…” he waves a hand, half-expecting Tatsuya to poke holes in that logic.

“What if I get traded?” Tatsuya says. “I don’t want to do this because it’s convenient and then drop it in a month and a half.”

Daiki’s first thought is to say that’s fucking ridiculous, that they’re doing so well this year and that they’d never trade Tatsuya, but that’s not the point. Tatsuya was traded at the deadline last year, and the year before that; it’s a very real possibility to him (and maybe to the front office, because it’s a business or whatever excuse they’re going to give). Tatsuya’s waiting for an answer.

“I hadn’t considered that,” says Daiki. “But if happens, I—would you hide? Would you pull away?”

Tatsuya swallows and looks down. “Yeah,” he says.

“Would you let me in? Because I wouldn’t want to let you go.”

Daiki’s heart is hammering, tens of thousands of feet stomping in an arena, the bass booming out of the speakers. Tatsuya looks at him, trying to determine how serious he is (very), how much he’ll back it up (the whole damn way), whether he can try and make that choice for Daiki (no). He must see the right thing, or just have gotten way worse at lying to himself, because, finally, he reaches for Daiki’s hand.

“Then we’ll make it work,” says Daiki. “No matter where you are, if you get traded or if I do or if we both do.”

“I’m in,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki squeezes his hand—and then, what the hell’s he waiting for? He pulls Tatsuya closer; it’s awkward with Tatsuya sitting halfway on his side and Daiki’s leg propped up on the coffee table but whatever. They’ll have time for a picture-perfect kiss later; right now it’s like they’ve just gotten driver’s licenses and shiny new BMWs, and Daiki can’t wait to start a drag race. He skims one hand down Tatsuya’s waist to squeeze his ass and Tatsuya laughs, ducks his head away, but then turns it up again and he’s smiling when their lips finally meet. There were so many times they’d done this but Daiki’s not fucking thinking about them because this is real.

They make out for a while before Tatsuya’s clearly getting stiff from the positioning and he yawns when he pulls back, and the circles under his eyes have only gotten bigger.

“Go sleep off the jet lag,” Daiki says.

Tatsuya raises his hand in mock-salute.

Daiki sleeps alone that night, not out of any desire not to disturb Tatsuya (he sleeps like a fucking rock, especially after flying) but because that would be too much at once. They have time in front of them to do that, and plenty of it; there’s no reason not to take it a little bit slower even if they’re both better at sharing now. And alone, Daiki can let himself dream about Tatsuya, so close and no longer so far.

* * *

Tatsuya has a shitty-by-his-standards game against San Antonio; he comes home late and crawls into bed next to Daiki turned away, close to the edge. Daiki’s only half-awake; he’s still weighing the idea of rolling over and putting his arm around Tatsuya’s waist when he slips back into sleep, and when he wakes up the bed’s cold beside him. Daiki can hear the shower running; Tatsuya’s already back from his morning run. It’s still early; Daiki rolls over and closes his eyes again until he hears the bedroom door open.

“Hey,” he says, pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “I’m going to head out to practice in a bit. Anything you need me to pick up?”

His voice is neutral, deliberate. He’s still angry with himself; his jaw still looks stiff and his shoulders are set.

“Nah,” says Daiki. “I’ll take care of dinner. Just let me know when you’re on your way back.”

Tatsuya nods. Daiki watches him get dressed, but Tatsuya doesn’t bother to try and put on a show for him this morning. It’s still nice to see, the way he towels off his hair and pulls a shirt over his head, fingers fastening the buttons. Then he’s gone, and Daiki pulls the covers back over him.

He wakes up again an hour later, and he really can’t put off doing his physical therapy exercises any longer. If Tatsuya were here he’d help, but he’s not—though really, even without him being here having their relationship makes the exercises and everything about the injury a little more bearable. It gives him something in the short-term to look forward to, dinner together or, if Tatsuya’s out of town, watching the game on TV and texting afterward, going into detail about Tatsuya’s game and then derailing the conversation with flirting until one of them (okay, it’s always Daiki) gets fed up and calls the other. And when Tatsuya’s home, he eases Daiki’s restlessness, distracting him from his ankle or listening to him whine and vent until he’s tired or having really slow morning sex under the blankets because the bedroom radiator’s shit. Tatsuya never tells him it’s only going to be a few more weeks and that he’ll be back soon; he knows that doesn’t do shit, and for that Daiki’s grateful, and that makes it a little better, too. It’s even easier to do the damn exercises when he’s thinking about Tatsuya, even if he’s not there.

They’ve been easing back into their relationship routine well, not like they’d never stopped but more like it had kept existing on some parallel continuum and they’d jumped the tracks like some extra-capable trolley. In a way, that’s sort of true of the past few months, living together and establishing rapports and routines; they’re just fitting more things into the same time now. They’re still cooking dinner together most of the time, only now they flirt and bump elbows and once or twice Daiki’s pushed Tatsuya up against the counter right after they’ve put the fish in the oven. Today, though, Daiki’s going to take care of dinner on his own; it’ll at least make things easier for Tatsuya.

He rifles through the fridge; there’s a few vegetables in the crisper and some leftover rice, eggs and milk and half a jar of peanut butter. They need groceries, but Daiki absolutely doesn’t feel like getting them today. Besides, with Tatsuya’s obviously-shitty mood and all he deserves a treat, a once-in-a-while break in the prescribed diet. Daiki wonders if that noodle place on 149th and Broadway that they used to stop by on their way home from the park is still open. A few minutes on the internet confirms that it is, and that its menu is still roughly the same.

He gets back with the food before Tatsuya’s back from practice, his ankle already complaining from the short walk. He ices it and puts it up on the coffee table, and flips through the channels on TV. There’s tennis on ESPN, sports talk on ESPN2, infomercials and news and cartoons on most of the other channels. He settles on a dumb commercial for a sports drink with that guy from the Clippers and waits for whatever show to come back on. It’s one of those shows with the tortured-looking white guys Tatsuya likes; it’ll do. He’s pretty sure Tatsuya’s tried explaining this one to him before, but it’s too complicated and anyway, it’s fun to watch while not getting it and just making shit up to explain everything he doesn’t understand. He’s just settling in and making up context for the seemingly-random shit on the show when Tatsuya gets in, face pink from the cold.

“I got takeout,” says Daiki. “There was nothing in the fridge.”

“You could have bought groceries,” says Tatsuya, but his mouth is twisting into a smile.

“That’s your job,” says Daiki.

“Did you walk? How’s the ankle?”

“I might have overdone it,” Daiki says. “But only a little. I did my exercises and stuff earlier.”

Tatsuya drops the subject and sits down next to him, pulling the hot plastic containers from the bag. He passes Daiki the hot beef chopped noodles and takes the container of dumplings for himself. The food’s still warm but cool enough to eat, and God. It’s still just as good as it ever was, when they could down three containers of noodles between them and still have room for more. The spice level is appropriately mouth-numbing, and Daiki grabs one of the iced lychee teas, offering the other to Tatsuya. That’s good, too; it’s sweet and strong and the perfect complement. Tatsuya’s almost done with the dumplings, so Daiki steals one, dipping it generously in the tangy sauce.

Tatsuya reaches over and grabs a clump of noodles from Daiki’s container with his chopsticks; it refuses to come free for a few seconds but he finally pulls it out and manages not to spill the food everywhere.

“This is good,” Tatsuya says. “Thanks for picking it up.”

“No problem,” says Daiki, downing the rest of his tea.

They settle in closer against each other on the couch. Tatsuya drags his foot up Daiki’s good ankle (his toes are fucking freezing still) and Daiki drops his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders.

“What’s happening in this episode?”

“Well,” Tatsuya begins.

Daiki stops following after the third sentence, unable to keep all the characters and plotlines straight, even after half-watching the last twenty minutes. He likes listening to Tatsuya explain it anyway, the animation of his hands and the movement of his mouth. And there are some things he picks up, names and locales that sound vaguely familiar even after years since the last time Tatsuya had tried to explain it all to him. Daiki leans his head on Tatsuya’s shoulder and nuzzles his neck; he can feel Tatsuya’s laugh before he hears it.

“Tired?”

“Mm.”

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

They watch the next three episodes in silence (the show’s apparently on a marathon), and Daiki honestly couldn’t even say what any of the lines of dialogue were. He’s too busy focusing on his fingers winding through Tatsuya’s, the smell of Tatsuya’s neck, practice-facility shampoo and burnt coffee and a little bit of Daiki’s cologne that he’d probably stolen. Tatsuya curls up closer, swinging his legs over Daiki’s lap. (he’s probably not paying much attention either, but he’s also probably got the episodes memorized).

* * *

There is one small maybe-benefit to being injured, but it would be the same if Daiki was day-to-day or just rested for one night, without the month out already and a couple of weeks still left. But from his position on the sidelines, he gets to watch Tatsuya for whole games at a time in a way he can’t when they’re playing alongside each other.

The game against New Orleans starts out awful; Tatsuya’s doing all he can but the Hornets are all over him. They’ve managed to spook Wallace into missing three shots, and all three forwards look lost and they’re down seventeen already. Daiki sighs and flexes his hand out of habit, the way he did last year watching games from the bench and trying to convince himself he was completely healthy. They’d played sloppy without him, too, but they’d played sloppy with him; he’d been just as bad as the rest. This team is different, though, and even on an off-night Daiki could watch Tatsuya forever.

The Knicks call a timeout. Daiki’s not sure if it’ll be of any help, but they might as well try.

The coaches are trying their best not to yell at all the players, but Tatsuya cuts them off. They all start to listen, players and coaches, as Tatsuya gestures wildly. Daiki can’t hear what he’s saying from this far but he can read the intensity of Tatsuya’s expression, and whatever it is seems to have some sort of effect on everyone.

The refs break up the huddle and the teams go back out on the floor, and Daiki watches. Wallace passes the ball to Tatsuya, and Tatsuya dribbles. He moves, slower than he has to, around the opposing players; his path is unclear but the pace is solid. He passes to the open man just inside the three-point line. He shoots; the ball travels in a perfect parabola and swishes through the hoop.

Play goes back the other way, and still Tatsuya’s setting the pace for the Knicks and the Knicks set the pace for the Pelicans, forcing them almost to a shot-clock violation. They get a shitty shot off, but the rebound ricochets off the rim and straight back to the Knicks. They keep chipping away at the lead through the first, and they end up only ten points behind.

The whole thing only works because it’s Tatsuya, because all the kids look up to him and the coaches like his work ethic (but more importantly, his results; that’s the only reason they can hold him up as an example of Doing Everything Right Because It Pays Off). They look up to Daiki, too, but even when he was healthy it was different. Daiki’s the guy they used to want to be like (and still sort of do); Tatsuya’s the guy whose approval they care about. Daiki’s not sure if he should be jealous, or if he actually is jealous. It’s not something he really wants, and more something he can appreciate, because he knows what it’s like trying to gain favor from Tatsuya; it’s not something he gives lightly (but that just makes it more worth going after).

The Knicks keep it going through the second, finally taking the lead on a three-point play thanks to an obvious foul on Tatsuya right in front of the ref. His shot is clean; the tie is broken; that’s all the Knicks need in order to start running away with it. Even after halftime, the lead continues to build, and by the fourth they have mostly bench players out there. They hold down the fort well, slam the door in the Pelicans’ faces, and seal Tatsuya’s twenty-five point game while he watches from the sidelines with approval etched on his face.

* * *

Daiki’s finally cleared for play at the end of January. The coaches want to debut him at the next home game, but Daiki would rather just get back as soon as possible and get those first few games out of the way. He’s been working his way up to full practices, and he’s fit in seamlessly with the rest of team, even though they’ve been winning without him. Even more than that, he needs to prove he’s really back in playing shape, and he just wants to play. He promises that of course he’ll go easy on the ankle and let them give him limited minutes without complaint and the minute he feels something he’ll come out. He’s had too many re-aggravated injuries not to listen by this point, and he feels too good not to.

They pencil him in for the Boston game; despite the shitty mountains of dirt-encrusted snow outside Daiki feels great. He grins into Tatsuya’s shoulder as they settle in for their pregame nap; Tatsuya squeezes his wrist in return. He’s not too excited to fall asleep, though he is excited about all of this, to be back, to play as Tatsuya’s boyfriend. It’s not going to, like, elevate their chemistry (at least it hasn’t in practice) but it’s still fun to get too close bending over a clipboard, to lean against each other watching video, to bump fists after a nice play and let their hands linger close together after the fact. Daiki’s a simple guy, okay?

He tries not to resent the few, protected minutes he gets; after the first few the whole holy-shit-I’m-back feeling fades away and he’s almost as impatient waiting on the bench in his uniform that he has been sitting street clothes on the side. He gets a few points but he’s itching to play more all through the second quarter. In the fourth, though, he starts to really feel how tired he is, how unused he is to playing a full game’s worth of minutes. It’s going to take a few more games for him to get his stamina back, yet another reminder that he’s not as young as he once was.

It still feels good to be a part of the win, to show up on the scoresheet as something other than DNP, to fall sleep feeling like he’s actually done something today.

“Congratulations,” Tatsuya whispers as they drift off.

Daiki tries to say Tatsuya hadn’t done too bad himself, but he’s too close to sleep to make any kind of coherent sound.

* * *

Now that Daiki’s back on the court, most of the remaining tangles in his and Tatsuya’s relationship are beginning to sort themselves out. It’s easy to sync up their routines when Daiki’s going to the same practices and games as Tatsuya instead of physical therapy, and the little resentment for Tatsuya’s health that Daiki couldn’t stop from creeping in has fallen away. It just feels so good, so right to be together right now, to “accidentally” bump into each other in the locker room and pass the ball to each other in games and fall asleep on the couch watching video together only for Daiki to wake up half an hour later with the video ended and his arm tingling from where Tatsuya’s body is pinning it to the back of the couch.

The grind of the season is taking its toll on Tatsuya, and Daiki too; he still feels like the injury is forcing him to play catchup, that everyone else is in a different place than him. He’s still making the plays, but whenever he lets himself think it just all feels weird. Basketball really is a young man’s game, especially right now; they can take all the punishment every night, go hard 35 or 40 minutes and go out the next day and do it all over again.

Tatsuya’s clearly tired, though; he’s slower at practice and sleeping for longer; Coach rests him against Milwaukee and he’s not happy about that. He tries to play it cool, and Daiki tries to get him to vent or something, but the attempt is unsuccessful, and it feels like (rightly or not) just another failure at trying to help Tatsuya the way he should, the way he hadn’t tried hard enough the first time around, the way Tatsuya had helped him when he’d been injured.

This time around, he’s not going to stay clueless and silent. He finds Tatsuya in the kitchen flipping through a cookbook on the counter and wraps his arms around Tatsuya’s waist.

“Am I doing enough?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” says Tatsuya.

“For you.”

“Of course,” says Tatsuya.

He swivels around so they’re facing each other, pressed stomach-to-stomach; he’s looking up into Daiki’s face from below his lashes, beautiful but very serious.

“Am I not showing it enough?”

He is; he’s not hesitant to touch Daiki or bring him in for a kiss, to reassure him that his feelings are most definitely real.

“I’m just…when you were helping me with the ankle thing. I haven’t really, uh. Done anything.”

“I’m not injured,” says Tatsuya.

That’s not really the point, though; that’s not what Daiki had meant or how he’d wanted to say it. It’s more than help; it’s everything, really.

“I just want to know you need me, too,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya’s not good at needing, or at least admitting that there’s something outside of what he can do for himself that he needs, for anything. Maybe it’s way too soon to admit this shit, a month and change into their newly-defined relationship (regardless of the time they’ve logged as boyfriends in the past or as friends more recently); maybe despite what they’ve said, all the changes they’ve gone through, this is going to make Tatsuya run and hide.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya, cupping his cheek in one hand. “I need you as much as you need me.”

For now, Daiki supposes he’ll take that, even if Tatsuya means they don’t actually need each other at all.

* * *

They’d both been planning separate all-star vacations since the start of the season, and since neither of them wants to cancel they go their separate ways for the weekend. Daiki’s not looking forward to finally having some time off and not being able to spend it with Tatsuya, but it’s not like they can (or should) spend all their time together, and they’ll have all summer for that. Right now he’s pretty excited about visiting his parents and Satsuki in Tokyo, though, and he knows Tatsuya’s also happy about seeing Taiga and Alex.

Satsuki looks good; even though the trade deadline’s coming up and executives want to move half her NBA clients she’s not too busy, mostly just advising people about no-trade clauses and such (apparently the Knicks aren’t interested in moving Daiki, which he’s more than fine with). He’s already told her about Tatsuya, of course; though she’s made it clear she has her reservations she says she’s happy for him anyway.

It’s good to be home, though; no matter how much time he spends away and how much the city changes, it’s still the same place he grew up. The hustle and the atmosphere of the city, tourists hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood to go shopping, white-collar workers clogging the train. New York’s a little bit like it, enough to ease the part of him that had always been a little bit uncomfortable in Cleveland, but not enough to be anything close to a substitute.

Taiga calls him on Saturday afternoon, when it’s already past evening in LA.

“What’s up?” says Daiki.

“Tatsuya says you guys talked about it.”

Typical Taiga, straight to the point.

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “It’s not like we could really get back together and not fuck up right away without that.”

He doesn’t know how much Taiga knows, how much Tatsuya had told him and how much he’d guessed on his own. He wants to say it’s not Taiga’s business, but it kind of is, considering how deep he’d waded into their breakup and how highly-invested he is in Tatsuya’s happiness (the tow of them truly are a package deal).

“Uh,” says Taiga. “Yeah.”

“And?” says Daiki.

“Good,” says Taiga. “Anyway, don’t hurt him again. Don’t fuck things up.”

“I’m trying not to,” says Daiki.

In the background, Daiki hears Tatsuya’s distant voice. “What are you talking about?”

“You!” Daiki yells, hopefully loud enough for Tatsuya to hear.

“Ow, fuck, my ear,” says Taiga. “You want to talk to him?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

“You just saw each other,” says Taiga, but he hands over the phone anyway.

“Hey,” says Daiki. “How’s LA?”

“It’s good. Warm. How’s Tokyo?”

“Good. It’s nice to be here.”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya.

“So,” says Daiki. “What are you wearing?”

That gets a half-laugh out of Tatsuya. “Mm…black jeans, white t-shirt, that striped sweater.”

Daiki knows the one. “Oh, yeah.”

“Oi!” he hears from Taiga in the background. “Don’t do that on my phone plan!”

“I think Taiga disapproves,” says Tatsuya.

“Yeah, probably,” says Daiki.

“Try not to mess with him too much.”

“Mm.”

Tatsuya laughs. “I’ll call you later.”

* * *

Daiki’s been good about reading less of the rumor mill, but when he gets back to practice a dozen reporters are asking him about the trade rumors and whether he thinks the Knicks are a piece or two away. Daiki shrugs and says they’ll do whatever it takes to win, and then idle curiosity gets to him when the train back sits at 96th street.

He scrolls through Twitter; there’s talk about trading Wallace for a slight upgrade who’s older and comes with an expiring contract, getting rid of next year’s first-round draft pick to shore up their forward corps (including that goon on the Cavs, please no). And there’s a hell of a lot about Tatsuya.

All the articles start out talking about what a great season he’s having for an old guy, how healthy he’s been (as if that’s a surprise when it comes to Tatsuya), how it’s a nice story to see him come back to the city where he’d won a championship but you have to give something up in a trade and the Knicks will be able to make do without him, and perhaps improve if they have some other player. Fucking garbage, the team needs Tatsuya. Daiki closes the browser tab and shoves his phone into his pocket.

“What is it?” says Tatsuya.

“Trade rumors,” says Daiki.

His voice is dark; Tatsuya rests his hand on Daiki’s knee for a few seconds. It doesn’t help that much.

The next day Tatsuya gets called into the GM’s office in the middle of practice, and there’s no mistaking what that means. Some of the kids wish him luck; Daiki hugs him. It’s not as much as he wants to do but it’s as much as he can right now, and maybe some of his feelings will go from skin to skin. Tatsuya leans into the gesture, pulling away very late.

Daiki’s distracted the rest of practice; he makes two turnovers in ten seconds in the scrimmage, and then he tells himself to focus. He pulls it off well enough; he makes most of his shots and gets to the right place at the right time but a huge part of his brain is thinking about Tatsuya, where he’s going, how he’s dealing. It seems like a week until practice is over and he’s finally free. Tatsuya’s still in the locker room, gathering all his stuff. The kids all surround him immediately; Perez asks where he’s going and Russell asks what they’d gotten for him and they’re all both concerned and looking for one last bit of advice or attention. It would be pretty cute if not for the fact that Tatsuya’s fucking leaving.

“Charlotte,” Tatsuya says. “They sent a bunch of their doctors over here to look at me. I’ll be flying back as soon as ours get a look at Jackson.”

Jackson? That’s who they’re getting for Tatsuya?

“Straight up?” says Wallace.

“Yeah, no draft picks or anything,” says Tatsuya.

The Hornets are weak at guard, but that doesn’t mean the Knicks should fucking help them out, especially by sending Tatsuya over for a marginal return on help at forward. If Dolan was still the owner, he would have vetoed trading Tatsuya for sentimental value alone—though if Dolan was still the owner they probably wouldn’t be all that fucking competitive in the first place.

“I have to head back home,” says Tatsuya, “Pack and stuff. They’re going to get me to the airport as soon as Jackson’s done with his physical. But thank you, everyone. I’ve really enjoyed playing with you, and I’ll see you in the playoffs.”

“You bet,” says Perez. “We’re going to win, though.”

Tatsuya laughs, real enough for most of the kids not to catch how fake it is.

They take a cab back because it’s quicker; Tatsuya’s still wearing his Knicks hoodie and Daiki’s not going to tell him to take it off, not when it’s maybe the last time he’ll see it. Tatsuya walks around the apartment, throwing random crap into his worn-out duffel bag, an extra pair of boots and a raincoat and the book he’s currently reading. Daiki trails after, suggesting things halfheartedly but mostly watching, trying to stop his insides from bursting and trying to focus on the little things, the way Tatsuya’s hands look doing up a zipper and his bare feet on the hardwood floor.

Tatsuya double-checks and triple-checks; the suitcase is packed. He has his passport and his spare phone charger and three suits, workout clothes and underwear and pajamas, one of Daiki’s hoodies he probably hadn’t thought Daiki would miss (and he probably won’t miss this one; it’s better off with Tatsuya especially if Charlotte gets cold). They’re both pacing, up and down the living room floor; Daiki’s gone from letting his feet make noise to trying to make a game out of keeping them quiet, distracting himself from the impending trade with this. It doesn’t really work.

What has to be the fifteenth time they pass each other, Daiki stops. Tatsuya stops, too, looking at him. Their gazes meet; in that moment it’s more obvious than a giant black bullseye on a white background how vulnerable and scared Tatsuya looks at that moment, how much Daiki needs to do something. There’s not much he really can, he supposes, but holding Tatsuya might make both of them feel a little better so he does, hands clasping around Tatsuya’s waist and face buried in Tatsuya’s neck.

Tatsuya breathes slow and shuddery, squeezing his arms around Daiki’s back. Daiki wonders if he should say how much they need Tatsuya here, as a team, but that probably won’t help very much.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki waits.

“I need you.”

His voice is so soft and frayed that Daiki’s heart almost explodes. It would be so easy to dismiss this as Tatsuya saying this because he’s about to leave and he’ll be able to hide from it, that he’s trying to give Daiki what he wants in the short term while trying to avoid everything that comes with that statement. But there are a thousand reasons why Tatsuya still wouldn’t do it, least of all because of how true the statement rings. Daiki squeezes him.

“What do you need? What can I do?”

“Just this,” says Tatsuya. “This is fine.”

So they stay like that, Daiki memorizing the shape of Tatsuya in his arms, the slope of Tatsuya’s skin beneath his lips, the way he clings back. When’s the next time they’re going to get to do this?

Tatsuya’s phone vibrates; Daiki gives him room to pull back but he only does halfway.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey, Tatsuya.”

The volume on his phone is loud enough that Daiki can hear Tatsuya’s agent on the other end.

“Jackson flunked his physical.”

Daiki doesn’t breathe.

“Some kind of scar tissue in his foot from that surgery he’d had in college; they’re not taking him for all the years left on his contract, so you’re staying put.”

“Oh,” says Tatsuya.

He’s staying. He’s fucking staying, and Daiki silently thanks the Knicks’ doctors for being so finicky and thorough, Jackson’s contract for being so long, his not-even-a-problem foot scarring for existing, and whatever other causes there might be. Tatsuya gets to stay here, with him.

Tatsuya hangs up the phone and pulls Daiki closer again, presses his face to Daiki’s shirt. He still needs this; they both do.

* * *

Since the trade that wasn’t, Tatsuya’s been simultaneously more relaxed and tense. In some ways, it’s like it was just after he’d signed the contract, that some part of him had always been readying to leave, that he wouldn’t let himself settle down for the long hall if they were just going to ship him off somewhere else, but now that possibility is gone he has no reason not to let himself really believe this is for the long haul of the whole season. But they’d also tried to get rid of him; the only thing preventing it had been an unpredictable hitch in the plans, and so he’s got an even bigger chip on his shoulder; even though he and the Knicks are stuck with each other he feels like he needs to prove himself all over again.

It helps that no one in the locker room had wanted him gone; Daiki tells Tatsuya they probably wouldn’t be happy if he’d been traded for prime-era Michael Jordan and Tatsuya tells Daiki they’d all make shitty executives. It’s true, though, that a team grows accustomed to having certain players in certain roles and certain dynamics (Daiki’s learned at least that since the start of high school). Swapping out players can help but it also rocks the boat, and at this point Daiki would sacrifice some firepower for steadiness, even outside of how much Tatsuya means to him personally.

They’re leaning more on each other in general; the whole team’s going harder in practice and gunning for the playoffs. Sometimes Daiki wonders if they’ll gas themselves before they get there, but considering the average age probably not. It’s Tatsuya and Daiki who have to look out for each other, show no weakness and prop each other up, make sure they both stay rested and healthy. The coaches sit them both a game apiece, and it’s probably what they need at this stage, no matter how much they want to go all eighty-two-plus. The Knicks are coasting on a huge division lead; despite their predicted mediocrity they’re kicking ass; they can afford a loss or two here and there the way they can’t in the playoffs.

Maybe this, being perfectly healthy and having to sit out anyway, waking up achy and sore in a hotel room that might as well be anywhere (and takes him a few moments to quite remember which town it is), is the feeling that had made Taiga realize it was time to retire. Maybe it had been the pile-up, another shitty bus ride and another shitty hotel breakfast and another game that had felt too long. Right now, though, Daiki still doesn’t feel like giving this up. The possibility seems remote, wrong, unreal. 

But most of all, it’s irrelevant to the games they still have left to play; regardless of what he decides (if there’s a decision to be made) he’s still playing this out, so he shoves all of those thoughts out of his mind. (He does, in the late hours of the night when he can’t fall asleep on the team plane, wonder whether Tatsuya, dozing off next to him, has had these thoughts too, however.)

* * *

The schedule’s weird this year; the Knicks don’t go to Cleveland until March. It’s probably better like this, to be going back after everything’s been given time to settle, but Daiki still feels unprepared. The coaches ask him if he’s going back to his house, but Daiki shakes his head. It’s too far from the arena; he’s not going to drive his car there and call someone to tow it back to the house after the game. The house itself is empty, full of boxes; Daiki’s hired someone to check in on it once a week and mow the lawn; it’s certainly not going to feel like home if he goes and he can’t take Tatsuya with him.

“It’s weird,” Daiki says, voice muffled by the hotel pillow.

Tatsuya rubs his back. “Of course it’s weird. It’s always going to be weird.”

That doesn’t make Daiki feel much better. Maybe it would be easier now if he’d been good to go for that game against the Cavs back home in December, or maybe it would make this harder because it’s like getting hit all over again, the Cleveland fans and all of the local media and people in jerseys with his name and number and a Cavs logo on the front.

It’s still weird the next morning, the local media crowding around his locker at practice and asking the same kinds of questions they’d asked last time.

“Of course it’s strange,” says Daiki. “But I’m comfortable here. I’m glad to be back; I’ve had some good games in this arena so I’ll do fine tonight.”

“Have you been catching up with old friends? Revisiting your favorite places?”

Daiki shakes his head. “I’m here for work. I’m here to win a ballgame; I can do that in the offseason.”

It’s apparently a disappointing answer, but at least it gets them away from Daiki’s locker. Regardless of how familiar they all are, he just doesn’t want to deal with any of it now.

Daiki catches his name on signs in the crowd, some in English and some in Japanese, many of them welcoming him back. Shit, it feels so wrong to be here wearing blue and orange instead of white and red, and Daiki can barely focus on the pregame warmups.

And then they announce the fucking video tribute. Daiki’s seen it done for a few players before, but he hadn’t even thought about it in this context, although it makes sense (it would make more sense to him if management were actually sorry about letting him go, although maybe they are now, what with him and the Knicks in first place and them struggling to stay in the fight for the eight seed). He braces himself, but he’s not prepared.

It opens with just a black screen, and then the familiar notes of that dubstep song they’d used as the team’s fight song his first few years here, and then there he is, eighteen and dressed in an ill-fitting suit on draft day, shaking the owner’s hand, posing with LeBron James with a ridiculous smile on his face but trying to pose like he’s cool. There he is in his first game; he can tell right away because he’d shot the ball from nearly full-court; the head coach had benched him the next game for showing off and he’d probably deserved it with the kind of ass he’d been back then. There he is, dunking; there he is, his first all-star team; he passes and shoots with his arms overextending, kicking his leg out for balance. And there he is winning the championship, O’Brien Trophy in one hand and Finals MVP in the other, in the middle of his teammates pouring champagne on him, and that’s what fucking does it.

He's not crying; there’s something in his eye; there’s got to be fifty million fucking cameras on his face now and he can’t cry but his cheeks are wet—it’s got nothing to do with version of him on the screen, bright-eyed, slapping his teammates on the back, jumping probably twice as high as he can get now, pulling his jersey away from his chest to emphasize the Cavs’ logo, getting a water cooler full of Gatorade dumped on his head after scoring a buzzer-beater in OT to lock up their playoff spot.

The fans are chanting his name by the end, and they’re showing a view of his face now on the scoreboard; Daiki lowers his head and points to the crowd. That’s all the fucking proof he needs, all the vindication. The Knicks could get knocked out in the first round; Daiki could get injured again tomorrow; he’s already won but it doesn’t feel good. Part of him, not as large as he’d thought, wants to be here every day, wear the old uniform, try and bring a championship back here.

“Need a minute?” says Tatsuya, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Nah, I’m good,” says Daiki.

He wipes his face with his towel; it’ll have to do. They still do have a game to win, and even if he doesn’t need to prove it he’s going to show the Cavs what they’re missing all over again.

The Cavs really are dreadful; Daiki gets thirty points and eleven rebounds even while sitting out half of the third quarter entirely. It feels good, but it still feels a little bit wrong and weird, and maybe Tatsuya’s right and it never really goes away.

He thinks about what Satsuki had said back in that café, that he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t wanted to believe her then, but now he’s pretty sure he does want to and that he does believe.

When they get back from the road trip a few days later, Daiki flops down on the bed and pulls Tatsuya down on top of him before they can even put their suitcases anywhere.

“It’s good to be home,” he says, clasping Tatsuya’s hands in his own.

“Isn’t it?” says Tatsuya.

He wriggles out a few minutes later to get undressed and brush his teeth, and Daiki follows. Daiki still hasn’t stopped smiling by the time they fall back into bed. This is exactly where he should be right now.

* * *

They make another west coast trip in the middle of March, Oakland and Denver and Portland and then back to LA to play the Clippers. They have to jet off to Utah right after the game, so Tatsuya brings Daiki along to hang out with Taiga and Alex beforehand.

This isn’t as much of a meet-your-boyfriend’s-family type thing as it had been the first time they’d dated. Even then, Daiki had known Taiga and Alex pretty well but they both weren’t used to the idea of Daiki as Tatsuya’s actual boyfriend rather than a friend or hookup. It had probably caused more friction between Tatsuya and the two of them than Daiki and anyone (what with as much as he’d hated the idea of the two of them looking out for him, taking it as an insinuation that he couldn’t take care of himself) but it had made sense. They have his best interest at heart, and even though Daiki’s Taiga’s friend, too, Tatsuya comes first for them.

Still, Daiki had remained friends with them after the breakup (which they know was mutual and he and Taiga already talked about in terms of him and Tatsuya right now), and Tatsuya can actually take care of himself a whole lot better now, something that’s not lost on anyone here. But Taiga still looks at them every time they touch, every time they turn toward each other, as if trying to see some nonexistent faultline before it rips apart and their relationship crumbles into the abyss. Things are good right now, though; things are getting better every day, and Daiki hopes it’s not just the illusion he wants to see.

He figures he’s passed whatever the tests are when they let him go without a word of warning, and why shouldn’t he? It still feels like a decent-sized weight is off his shoulders, that this isn’t just some fragile thing that only exists when they’re alone, between the two of them, that there aren’t any obvious flaws and warps they can’t see because they’re on the inside.

The Clippers kick their asses that night, but Daiki still counts the day as a win.\

* * *

The Knicks finish the regular season on a high note, a clean win against the Hawks after they’ve already sealed home-court advantage for the first two rounds. The first round is laughable, a quick sweep of Boston, who had lucked into the playoffs after giving up and trading their best player for a couple of draft picks and the rights to some guy who’s playing in Spain right now.

The second round is going to be tougher; they’re facing Indiana, a very competent four-seed. They’re bigger than the Knicks and just as fast; they aren’t as efficient when shooting but they defend well enough that that’s less exploitable than everyone thinks it is. That, of course, means it’s probably going to be fun as hell.

Everyone’s pumped up for the first game; the rookies have never been to the playoffs at all, and it’s been a long time since Daiki was even this far in. It’s easy to get used to it, though, the tension in the air of the arena about to crack like thunder, every shot seeming to count more like they’re being graded on some kind of exponential curve, the speakers turned up too loud and the crowd responding until their voices give out.

Indiana wins the tipoff and scores first, an easy layup that’s only a bland statement. Tatsuya scores ten second later on a jumper, and that’s how the game’s going to go. One team scores; the other matches. One team blocks; the other steals. The score seesaws a little bit, tipping first in the Knicks’ favor and then in the Pacers’, but as the clock winds down the Knicks are clinging to a two-point lead.

The Pacers foul Wallace; they don’t have much choice with nine seconds left and the Knicks in possession. He makes the first free throw, but the second spins around the rim for a few moments before plopping down into the hands of one of the Pacers. He passes it up ahead to his two, standing at the half-court line. He jumps, lets the ball fly off his fingers. No one had bothered to guard him at all, assuming Wallace would make the free, but Daiki can see from the moment the ball leaves his hands where it’s going to land.

Indiana’s got the momentum; they crush the Knicks under their heels like worms in the OT period and win it by fifteen. Daiki doesn’t need Coach to tell him how disappointed he is; he’s pretty sure no one else does, either. They’d all screwed up, giving up their big lead and then letting it get to OT and then losing it all in five minutes. Still, it’s as good a motivator as any, and the early-morning practice tomorrow is, if not necessary for their mechanics, probably a good way to get everyone’s frustrations out.

They don’t let the second game slip from their grasp, or the third one, either; they win the fourth in a come-from-behind in regulation and they’re back home for Game Five.

It starts out like the first one, anyone’s game at the half, then at the end of three. Neither team has had a double-digit lead all game, and the possibility one of them blows it open is looking highly unlikely at this stage. They’re doing everything they’d done in Game Four, and doing it right; it’s not like the Pacers have suddenly figured out their game plan; they’re just somehow matching every basket, getting through the Knicks’ defense more when it seems like they aren’t.

They foul Tatsuya in the fourth quarter again with thirty seconds left and the Knicks down by one. He makes the first free and intentionally misses the second; the ball bounces off the rim and Daiki knows exactly where it’s going to fall. He nearly doesn’t get there and almost has to foul the Pacers’ center to get the ball back. He looks at the shot clock; the only way to do this is to get the ball out, hold it as long as possible, and make a three. The passing lanes are blocked; Perez is right by the net and Daiki’s just going to have to trust him. He shoots, intending for the ball to go off the rim and reset the shot clock.

The only problem is Indiana’s point guard, who out of nowhere lunges and intercepts the pass and they’re all back the other way. Shit, shit, this is not good; it was a stupid idea and the cost of failure is too much. The Indiana point guard lazily dribbles, and then Tatsuya rushes in, grabs at the ball and bumps him, hard enough for him to flop and grab his shoulder. Tatsuya had basically hip-checked him; there’s no way the refs didn’t see that. There’s no way they’re giving Tatsuya a flagrant; they can’t. Daiki’s eyes meet Tatsuya’s; Tatsuya looks worried for a second and the officials really can’t be that dumb. Then again, Daiki didn’t think the Knicks would try to trade Tatsuya, so what does he know once the ball’s not in play?

One more foul and Tatsuya’s out; shit, that was risky. Daiki reminds himself that they’re one win away from the conference finals, but that’s still not a complete comfort. Plenty of teams have blown a 3-1 lead.

The point guard starts to argue with the ref, but his teammates pull him back and they announce the non-flagrant (thankfully) foul. Tatsuya’s been pulled for their other shooting guard, and they all line up around the free throw line.

He misses both shots; there’s ten left on the clock when Perez grabs the ball. He takes it slow across the half-court line; the seconds seem to stretch themselves. He passes it, finally, to Daiki; Daiki’s not close enough to shoot with perfect confidence so he passes it back. Two seconds. Perez leaps; the ball leaves his hands; the buzzer sounds.

The ball bounces off the backboard and down to the floor. They’re going into OT again.

This time, they don’t collapse; this time, they make the shots and make the blocks and it’s like the latter part of last game all over again condensed in five minutes where Indiana just couldn’t keep up. They’re up by ten with forty-five to go; the crowd is on its collective feet. They seal the deal with another layup and a long three, and then they’re fucking in.

Most of the team goes out to celebrate the victory; Daiki and Tatsuya go with them but after about half an hour it’s clear Tatsuya’s struggling to stay awake and Daiki’s not so alert himself.

“I want to celebrate with you,” Daiki mumbles into Tatsuya’s hair, leaning against the living room wall.

“We can do that after the finals,” Tatsuya says, or at least that’s what Daiki thinks he hears because Tatsuya’s mouth is pressed to his shirt collar and he can feel Tatsuya’s warm breath on his skin.

“After we win,” says Daiki (and now it doesn’t seem so far away; there’s only the winner of the next series between them and the finals, only eight wins to reach it—it’s no guarantee, but it’s already so fucking close).

“After we win,” Tatsuya repeats. “Champagne, victory sex, big party.”

“We don’t have to go hard right now,” says Daiki. “What about just the victory sex part?”

“Tonight?” says Tatsuya, looking up at him through sleepy eyelids.

“Tomorrow morning,” says Daiki.

“How’s it going to be victory sex the day after?”

“We’ll still be basking in the glory,” says Daiki.

“Don’t rest on your laurels,” says Tatsuya.

(It ends up feeling pretty fucking victorious, actually, and it doesn’t take much afterwards to get Tatsuya to agree.)

* * *

They end up playing, of all teams (well, of the two remaining), the Charlotte Hornets, the conference finals. The media is having a field day, tossing out articles speculating that perhaps it’s better for both teams that the deal hadn’t gone through (of fucking course it is) or how the Knicks might be regretting that medical veto because Jackson’s not having any foot problems right now and isn’t a championship worth it? Daiki would not like to meet that particular reporter anywhere because he’d probably end up giving her a piece of his mind, even though Tatsuya pretends it doesn’t bother him at all.

Daiki’s playing more minutes than he has all year, but he feels the opposite of worn-down. It’s like by placing him under more pressure, they’re forcing more out of him and taking him to heights he didn’t know he could still reach. He can feel it in the air, the door to the zone just beyond his hand, every game, and it would be so tempting to kick it open and smash through whatever limits he still has.

But the last time he’d zoned had been a couple of years ago and he’d been out for a week; there’s no use pulling out a trick like this from his arsenal when they haven’t even lost a game yet and the finals loom ahead. Sure, Daiki could blow out his knee tomorrow night or tire himself out so completely he can’t get back to this stage, but at this point it’s highly unlikely. And he doesn’t need the zone to beat Jackson now; he’s in enough of a groove on his own.

The series is over in five again; they’re in the finals. The press have shut up about who had won the non-trade, and the Knicks have only four more wins left to tally.

* * *

They’re playing San Antonio, and it’s hard not to think of them as Tetsu’s team, even years later. Daiki texts Tetsu to ask who he’s rooting for, and Tetsu doesn’t answer; that’s typical of him and Daiki’s just going to assume that means he’s rooting for the Knicks.

There’s a lot of pre-series press, including that giant media day where they’re all wearing special edition team gear (made with the express purpose of selling to fans, of course). It’s exciting, sure, but Daiki would rather be taking a nap, not that he’d admit that to anyone except maybe Tatsuya (they all tease him about being old, anyway). At least the two of them get to sit together and play footsie under the table in flip flops (or when Tatsuya takes his foot out of his shoe and slides it up Daiki’s leg and that is not fair.

It’s hot down in Texas; they manage to sneak out of the hotel after curfew because they’re both actually pretty wired (more than Daiki had been the last time he’d gotten to the finals), and no one recognizes them in the Burger King a short walk away.

Their first date, the first time around, had been at a Burger King in LA, after about a month of flirting and hooking up; they were going to go with Taiga but something had come up and it was just them and Tatsuya had insisted on paying. Daiki had teased him about being so romantic, and Tatsuya had said it had worked, hadn’t it?

They hadn’t chosen this hotel, and if they had it probably wouldn’t have been based on sentimental fast-food proximity. The memory is not lost on Tatsuya; he steals a few of Daiki’s fries and dips them the puddle of ketchup on the side of the tray just the way he had back then and grins.

“We’re really here, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “We really are.”

This time last year, this was out of the question—the finals, the Knicks, Tatsuya most of all.

“Thank you,” Tatsuya says.

“Huh?” says Daiki.

“For putting up with me again,” says Tatsuya. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be with.”

“I’m not putting up with you,” says Daiki. “You’re worth it. You’re trying; you’re so much more open than you used to be. I’m not going to bail just because we hit a rough patch.”

“I know,” says Tatsuya. “You came back after last time.”

“I did,” says Daiki. “Because I wanted to. You don’t owe me shit. We’re a team, right?”

“Right,” says Tatsuya.

Under the table, Daiki grabs his hand, traces his fingers over the calluses on Tatsuya’s palm.

“But, I guess, I should say it, too,” says Daiki. “Thanks for giving me another shot. I know you had a lot of misgivings.”

“But I wanted to,” says Tatsuya.

“You wouldn’t have let that stop you before,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya smiles halfway. “You’re right.”

“I’m glad you let yourself do what you want,” says Daiki.

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

* * *

Game One is electric. The zone is scratching at Daiki’s fingertips, whispering at him to use it, use it, open the door, but the Knicks need him. They’re four wins away, not one or two; the Spurs had the best regular season of any team in the NBA and breezed through most of their early opposition as easily as the Knicks had. They’re sharp, fresh, young but experienced, the kind of team everyone predicts will start a dynasty.

The coronation can wait a few years, though. The Knicks come out ready, eager, and capable. They finish their passes, run their plays, sink their shots, draw a few lucky fouls. A quick lead lets the Spurs get sloppy, desperate; the Knicks toy with them for the rest of the half. They’re up by twenty at the half, but halftime is always a dangerous momentum-killer. The Spurs come out in angry focus, and they’ve got their best three-point shooters out there trying to maximize the efficiency. The only problem is none of those guys is much of a defender, so the Knicks get back every basket and capitalize on the Spurs’ misses with defensive rebounds and passes out ahead to threes of their own. They lose a lot of ground, but manages to hang on to the bitter end and it’s one down, three to go.

They win Game Two more easily, but drop Game Three at home. It’s not a bad loss, but the close ones are always the ones that hurt the most this time of year because the leash is too damn short to have much of an improvement arc. They win the next game, though; they sharpen up their defense and don’t take stupid shots when they don’t have to.

Some of the younger guys who’ve never been this far in the playoffs want to go out afterwards and celebrate. To be fair, there’s probably a lot of long-suffering Knicks fans willing to buy them a beer or two (and a lot of easily-impressed young single people), but alcohol’s definitely not in their diet and even aside from superstition and complacency celebrating early isn’t going to end well regardless.

They fly back to San Antonio the next day, no one nursing a hangover, but with excitement buzzing in the air like cicadas in one of those prime years, as if even the most superstitious of them is finally entertaining the possibility of winning it all. Even though it’s not at home (if only they’d won fucking Game Three) a win is a win and the trophy is the trophy.

From the outset, the game is sloppy; both teams fumble and turn the ball over and Daiki wonders if he should just zone now and put it away. But it’s never like that; the more he thinks about it the harder it is to slip behind the door, and it’s especially hard when the passes are dropping and people are throwing up elbows.

It tightens up in the second; Daiki’s making his field goals and they’re mostly doing the plays like they’re supposed to. The real problem is defense; the Spurs are slipping by and Daiki’s teammates are panicking. They foul, way too many for this early in the game; Coach calls a time out after the Spurs’ third possession in a row ends in a free throw and tells them to slow things down.

It sort of works until halftime; it’s mostly like absorbing the blood in an open wound and applying pressure to slowly stop it. They have a long talk in the locker room before the third; when Daiki starts to stretch he can feel it coming. And then Coach sends out their backup, because they need his defense.

Daiki really can’t be mad because it’s working; the Knicks are building up a lead and he’s not part of it but it’s a lead; it’s not like his contributions to the team all season long have suddenly been nullified. But he wants, needs to be out there at the pivotal moment; he can still block and steal and intimidate if he needs to.

He’s finally in at the end of the quarter, two points and an assist before the horn. They’re up by seven; it’s not a secure lead (though nothing is) but it’s good enough to build on. Coach switches Daiki and Tatsuya both out a few minutes into the fourth, says he’ll put them both in at the end. It feels a little like a snub, again like being told he’s unworthy, and isn’t the best defense a good offense? Shouldn’t they be trying to build up the lead?

And then the Knicks collapse like a cheap bedframe on an uneven floor, too quick for anything; Daiki goes out to stretch when the lead swings to the Spurs but they’ve already scored six points by the time he’s back in and they’re not about to let anyone stand in their way. Daiki reaches for the zone, about to open the door, and then the Spurs’ center dunks on him.

Coach pulls him after that, conceding the game with a few minutes left in the name of saving him for Game Six, and fuck. The next time he’s got a chance, Daiki’s going to rip that door off his hinges before any coach can pull him in the name of anything.

* * *

At least they have a chance to win it at home now, although maybe if they think too much about winning that’s going to bring them right back down again. In the locker room, no one says anything about it; no one says any of the specific words (the coaches reference it but always use some phrase about finishing the series, and Daiki’s inclined to agree with that sentiment; the Spurs have more energy and if this goes to a seventh game the odds are probably against the Knicks).

It starts even; both teams are playing tight on defense, both aware of their prior mistakes in that department. Daiki gets switched out early on and that’s fine; he already feels pretty fucking tired and for a fleeting moment he wonders if he’s just going to be physically incapable of going into the zone. But does it matter, really? By zone, by some specialty, they have to win; the zone is just the simplest way he can think of, but if he can hang tight in his usual mode all it has to be is good enough.

The problem is, Daiki doesn’t want good enough. Championships are never won on good enough; they’re won by better, usually a decisive better. And he’s got that in mind when he heads back out, already feeling more clear-headed. He makes his first two field goals, and then almost makes a turnover but then passes back, stopping himself several moments too soon. It feels good, jumping to make the right blocks, the smack of the ball against the scar on his hand. He wants it, needs it; he stuffs in a dunk.

He comes out again for most of the third; the Knicks’ defense struggles a bit but then Tatsuya comes back in and they adjust. They slow down, like they have all the time in the world; they catch up basket-by-basket. And then Tatsuya sinks a gorgeous fadeaway three as the quarter ends, arcing through the air and then down through the net as the buzzer falls silent. The Knicks’ lead is up to five points, and Coach is telling Daiki he’s in.

The door’s already open and Daiki’s through. Everything seems to slow down and speed up at once; he throws down a dunk from almost the free throw line, blocks a shot when the Spurs’ player starts his jump a meter away, feeds Tatsuya a crisp pass when they’ve left him all alone and he throws down another gorgeous fadeaway. It’s like Daiki’s feeding on it all, every increasingly-desperate push by the Spurs, every time the ball lands back in his hands, every beautiful shot or pass or steal from his teammates, like he’s going deeper into the zone with each one.

There’s a limit, though, a limit to how much he can hold his breath under the water of the zone; he’s not even close to the second door when he feels the crash coming and it’s all he can do to make the last dunk. He’s already walking over to the sidelines; Coach is calling their twenty-second timeout in the background; it’s all too much. Someone passes him a towel and he flops down on the chair. This had better be enough; it’s the best he can give.

He feels someone sit down beside him.

“What’s the score?”

“105-86.” It’s Tatsuya.

“How much time?”

“Five.”

They’ve lost games in less time, perhaps not as far apart as this. Daiki digs his fingers into the empty chair next to him. The Knicks score again and he pumps his fist. Daiki’s totally beat but his heart can’t stop thumping; he scoots to the edge of his seat. Time ticks down; the Knicks hold the lead. The Spurs are still scared. Tatsuya puts his hand on Daiki’s knee; Daiki leans closer so their shoulders are touching. Four minutes. Three. The lead’s up to twenty-five points. Two, and Daiki starts to let himself think that maybe it’s going to happen. One, and barring some insanity or a foul so flagrant they’re forced to forfeit, it will.

He’s never heard this arena so loud when the buzzer sounds; he can’t even hear the buzzer after half a second because of the people screaming, his teammates among them; Tatsuya pulls him to his feet and they’re all together in a massive clump, hugging and yelling incoherently in several different languages.

There’s posing for photos, holding the trophy, Perez going nuts over being named Finals MVP (kid fucking deserves it with his defense tonight and that triple-double in the second game) and the whole crowd staying and cheering. They go back to the locker room to pour champagne on each other and rip the tags off their honestly-pretty-tacky-but-right-now-beautiful championship t-shirts, take pictures with everybody’s kids, until even that starts to clear out. Daiki’s not sure how he’s still standing (hasn’t his adrenaline supply been exhausted by now?) but eventually he grabs a bottle of champagne and Tatsuya’s hand and they go back out to the court.

It’s pretty empty; there are still a few reporters going from locker room to locker room so they can get quotes from both sides but all the fans have been ushered out. Daiki figures that two old guys drinking champagne straight from the bottle will go unnoticed, but of course that doesn’t happen.

“Hey,” says one of the Knicks’ beat writers. “What’s next? You going to retire? You can’t top a season like this.”

Oh, right, retirement, the thing he’d succeeded in not thinking about for a while—but then, doesn’t that make it obvious?

“I think I’ve got another year left in me,” says Daiki.

**Author's Note:**

> (Tatsuya does, too, but that wouldn’t make as good an ending line.)
> 
> I’m assuming whenever this takes place, the minimum NBA salary for players with 10+ YOS is still less than $4 million.
> 
> #12 is retired on the Knicks, so that’s why Tatsuya’s ‘original’ number is 21.
> 
> Regular season schedule/results based on 2012-2013, when the Knicks won the division and like half the team was 38+.
> 
> If you actually got through all of this, thank you for your perseverance. This is why I don’t write longfic lmao


End file.
